Into the Woods
by darklydraco
Summary: COMPLETE! Draco's side of HBP - Dark Marks, Death Eaters, and learning to cast Unforgivables. And of course, angsty DM/HP with a hint of SS/RL. Featuring mentor!Snape. Warnings for explicit violence, rape, and m/m content.
1. Prelude and Arrest

**Into the Woods**

**by: darklydraco***

**Summary: **Draco's side of Half Blood Prince - Dark Marks, Death Eaters, and learning to cast Unforgivables. Featuring mentor!Snape.

**Pairing:** DM/HP, with a little SS/RL.

**Warnings:** slash, violence, angst (oh my!)

***Disclaimer:** The potter-verse belongs to JKR, all hail.

* * *

_**Prelude**_

Draco ran blindly, pulled by Snape's iron grip on his arm. It should hurt, but he couldn't feel anything. He stepped over a body… _oh gods…_ but he didn't have time to look back. Ahead of him, already though the front doors, Greyback howled and Bella carried on a maniacal sing-song chant about Potty and the Dark Lord.

Panic surged in waves as he stumbled to keep up on the down hill slope toward Hagrid's hovel. Someone lit it aflame. Behind him, Draco heard someone call his name, and he turned. _Harry!_ He wanted to call out. Wanted to run back. Everything had gone wrong. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. But Snape turned him around with a violent jerk of his arm and growled, "think of your mother," and Draco nodded, swallowing hard. And when Snape released his arm, he ran into the woods after the others. He would get her out, and then they could leave. But if he deserted her now, there would be no chance for her. _It's almost over. Then I'll come back._

When they reached the clearing, Snape was still lagging behind. As soon as he stepped into the clearing, Snape caught his eye and he nodded curtly, and Draco accepted this to mean that Harry was still ok. _Good._

Snape started issuing orders and the others began to disapparate. Draco waited until they were all gone to turn to Snape.

"Is he –"

"Forget about him, Draco. You can't help him. He can't help you. It's over." _What? No. This is wrong. This is all wrong._

"I'm going back to him. I'm going to get mother and I'm going back."

"You're Marked, Draco. You can never go back."

* * *

**Chapter 1: Arrest**

Fucking aurors everywhere.

Waiting on the platform when the Hogwarts Express arrived in London. Crawling all over the manor, grubby, peasant hands on centuries-old family heirlooms. The house elves were freaking out about the china and the good silver because the aurors had pulled out every drawer and emptied every closet, the contents littering the floors and hallways.

Draco's mother was completely beside herself. Someone evidently gave her a calming potion and put her to bed after she watched them shred the cushions of her great-grandmother's chaise.

Then Draco had been flooed directly to the Ministry by two of the larger aurors and taken to an interrogation room. Draco tried to say as little as possible.

That worked for about the first twenty-four hours.

They put him in a chair in front of white table in a small room flooded by lights that seemed to get gradually brighter and hotter with every passing hour.

The voices speaking to him from the shadows changed periodically and almost every one seemed to have a particular injury or grudge to air about Draco's father. All of these remarks were veiled, of course, and he couldn't hear names or see their faces. Malfoys can be knocked down, but never out, and none of them wanted to become future targets. But everyone wanted to take the chance to kick them while they were down, it seemed, and with his father in prison, Draco was the dog to kick.

He asked after his mother over and over, but never could get a reply. He was alternately worried for her and furious with her for leaving him in this hellhole.

By the end of the first day, exhaustion began to truly overtake him. That's when he discovered that every time he put his head down on the desk, it would send up a stinging hex and he would jerk back up. He also hadn't eaten since the train. And, of all the stupid things to be worried about, he really needed to pee. In fact, he'd needed to pee for the last several hours.

"What's wrong, Malfoy?"

Draco reddened under the ever-brightening lights, and knew he was squirming. He crossed his legs and his arms and refused to speak. His eyelids were more-or-less permanently closed now, but the light shone through them anyway.

"Look, just let me use the loo and have a rest and maybe I'll be able to remember something useful," Draco offered, trying to sound perfectly relaxed.

"I'm afraid I can't do that."

"But –"

"Yes?" asked a cruelly suggestive female voice from the shadows. Draco frowned and squirmed. The questions continued.

He tried to make sense out of what they were asking him now. Something about a house-elf, and Death Eaters, and Father, but pretty soon he couldn't concentrate on anything but his bladder.

And then, suddenly, Draco felt the inevitable spread of wet warmth in the crotch of his pants, and he knew there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. With a deep breath, he let it flow out unconstrained. He felt the hot urine begin to spread across the seat of his pants and run down his trouser legs, dripping into a puddle on the floor under his chair.

The relief was unbelievable, but Draco held his head high and acted as though nothing as all had happened. He blocked out the laughs, the jeers. They could treat him like a dog in a cage but Draco would never, ever give them the satisfaction of behaving like one. And so he sat, red-faced but proud, while he peed in his pants like a child.

They waited until the third day before employing the "enhanced interrogation techniques."

The table he had been trying not to lean on vanished and he found himself alone in the white room on his hard chair, when suddenly leather straps burst out of the sides and legs like fast-growing vines, wrapping around his ankles and tying his wrists behind his back, another strap extending to hold him upright in the chair.

Then he heard a hard, quiet voice pronounce "_crucio_," and his whole body spasmed as searing, blinding pain shot down his spine and out through every nerve of his body. He felt himself writhing, and heard someone screaming, but didn't recognize it as his own voice until the pain suddenly stopped, leaving behind a bone-deep soreness and overwhelming exhaustion. Draco was panting, his throat hoarse, and he looked up into the bright white lights but he couldn't see anything but a vague shadow at the edges. The white light was blinding him, burning into his brain, white heat searing into him.

They started firing questions at him – it sounded like a circle people - people, male, female, young, old, he couldn't tell. The room was spinning, or maybe Draco was spinning.

Another round of _crucio_, and another. They weren't even asking him questions anymore. Or maybe they were, but he couldn't understand them through the buzzing of the hot white lights overhead. Draco's head lolled, his eyes wouldn't focus.

Eventually they grew bored, and turned to muggle techniques.

Draco was bruised, bleeding, and barely conscious when the tall shape with dark blue robes and a long white beard strode in calmly but forcefully. He swooped him out of his seat with a strength he wouldn't have expected in such an old man. Draco's eyes were swollen shut, but he felt one of his arms thrown over Dumbledore's shoulders. With his felt dragging and trying to hobble along, he peered through the only eye he could manage to open, and saw a gnarled, blackened hand curled around his forearm as Dumbledore led him out of the bright room. Warm arms wrapped around him as he was shuffled down long hallways, whispers all around, but Draco was so disoriented, he couldn't understand anything except how glad he was to see Dumbledore and be out from under those lights.

Finally, he found himself in a cool, quiet, and blessedly dark sitting room with a low-burning fire in the hearth. Dumbledore deposited him onto a couch, where he promptly lay down. Through his throbbing headache and screaming limbs he was vaguely aware that he smelled like sweat and stale urine. His own urine. But he couldn't muster the energy to care. The Headmaster seemed to want to talk to him, but Draco couldn't make his mouth work; his throat was dry and sore and his lips were cracked, and one of his eyes simply wouldn't open at all.

But through the other eye, he could see Dumbledore looking thoughtfully at him, and Draco felt a surge of gratitude that he could not find a single hint of pity in the old man's face. That would have been just too much. He closed his eye again. The pain in his skull was unbelievable.

Finally, a voice spoke to him, but it wasn't Dumbledore's. It was Professor Snape.

"Draco, can you hear me?" Draco tried to nod, but wasn't sure if he'd managed it. "Draco, we are going to take you to St. Mungo's, but first Professor Dumbledore would like to speak with you." Despite his grogginess, Draco could hear a tone of disapproval in Snape's voice.

He opened his good eye again and peered at Dumbledore, who took this as a yes and proceeded to speak calmly but seriously.

"Mr. Malfoy, thank you for meeting with me. As you are, I'm sure, aware, your father is and will remain in Azkaban following his arrest last week. You mother has been placed under house arrest. You will be released from ministry custody in twenty minutes, which is why I was obliged to remove you so suddenly."

Draco managed a grunt of thanks.

"Do not thank me for freeing you, you may thank your mother's lawyers for having you released into the care of the Healers at St. Mungo's."

Draco frowned. That certainly made more sense then Dumbledore freeing him, but then why was he here.

"You are no doubt wondering why I am here. As soon as you leave, you will in all likelihood be taken back to the Death Eaters. Your father has fallen out of favour but he will be safe in Azkaban." Draco snorted, but Dumbledore continued unfazed. "You and your mother will be in considerable danger. You may be expected to pay for his mistakes."

Draco closed his one eye. He knew this. He'd known this the morning he'd received the owl from his mother telling him that Father's mission had been compromised and that there would be repercussions. Dumbledore pressed on, "We can help you, Mr. Malfoy. We can protect you, and your mother."

Draco frowned. His father might be in prison, but that would no reason to give up. No, Draco had not just endured three days of _hell_ at the hands of the goddamn Ministry to give up and turn himself over to whatever pathetic excuse for a resistance Dumbledore was trying to lead. The War was coming, and Draco knew damn well he wanted to be on the winning side.

"No," he croaked.

"Mr. Malfoy, I know you are scared-"

"I'm not scared. You're the one who should be scared," he began, trying to sit up. "The Dark Lord is back and he's leading a Revolution, and you cannot stop him," Draco tried to rise, but faltered slightly. After a moment, he rose against to his shaky legs and continued, "and the Dark Lord rewards his loyal servants," he spat out, looking pointedly at Snape.

Dumbledore had a sad look on his face, and now Draco saw that contemptible, infuriating pity oozing out over his half-moon spectacles.

"Your days are numbered," Draco announced boldly, and made for the door. Snape caught up to him but didn't try to stop him. Instead, he offered Draco an arm, and helped him manoeuvre slowly through the winding corridors until he was out in the Lobby. Flashbulbs went off when someone recognized him and called out his name, but Snape swiftly moved them to an open floo. It had taken all his effort to walk this far, and before he knew it he was collapsing into the darkness again.

When he woke up, he was lying on a warm, white hospital bed at St. Mungo's.

Draco's respite was short-lived. A haze of medics, lawyers, and aurors came and went, though Professor Snape seemed to be a fairly permanent fixture at his bedside throughout. Draco was unsure whether he was there on Dumbledore's orders, or on the Dark Lords', but he felt sure it was in neither party's best interest to leave him in the hands of the Ministry again. Draco learned from eavesdropped conversation that Fudge was on the way out. His replacement, Rufus Scrimgeour, was spoken of in hushed tones. Apparently, it had been his orders that the auror office employ "any means necessary" to obtain information about suspected Death Eater activities.

Thanks only to deep family pockets and official noses nervous about changing winds, and the fact that Draco was still a minor, the Malfoy lawyers were able to secure Draco's release following his stay at St. Mungo's, though on condition of house-arrest. _Great._

"But what about school?" His mother fretted beside him. She had been granted special leave to visit him in the hospital and was really start to get on his nerves.

"Madam, I understand you concern, but we have an interest in keeping our wizarding children safe in these dark times."

"And what about my child?" Narcissa asked, her voice cold. "Does he not also deserve to be safe?" The official snorted viciously. Draco couldn't remember his name just now, just that it was a muggle name, so he was probably a mudblood. Maybe a half-blood.

"Madam, it is the opinion of the ministry that your son is an imminent threat to the other students."

"I was not aware," joined a new voice from behind the ministry official's, "that it was in the ministry's jurisdiction to withhold education from any student who has obeyed the law and wishes to learn."

"Professor Dumbledore…" Draco started, and peered up from his hospital bed. His mother turned, too, surprised. The ministry official looked ruffled.

"Mr. Malfoy is an alleged colluder with You-Know-Who," the official stated flatly.

"I have not yet seen evidence that Mr. Malfoy's loyalties lie anywhere other than with his family, his friends, and his house," said Dumbledore patiently.

"A house full of snakes," hissed another official-looking woman, peering down at Draco disdainfully.

"Unless Mr. Malfoy has been convicted of anything," said Dumbledore, ignoring her, "I do not see why he should not be permitted to return to Hogwarts to resume his education." He said this with an air of finality, and then strode out like he had someplace else to be.

The ministry official looked more ruffled than ever and blustered something about "policy" and "procedure" and finally turned to Narcissa and informed her curtly that Draco was under house-arrest until the 1st of September.

"I'll need to buy my things for school," Draco added, emboldened. The official reddened visibly and ground out,

"Very well, one excursion to Diagon Alley." And swept out before any further requests for special treatment could be made.

During the end of his stay in Hospital, Narcissa made clear her intent to make the house arrest stick. Standing by his bedside she had even said something about what Azkaban was sure to be like for someone as young and… delicate… as Draco. The aurors had chuckled cruelly and Draco had bristled at her implication. Delicate. _Pfft_.

Two more days in the hospital, and Draco was returned home by yet another pair of nosy, self-righteous aurors and reminded sternly to remain on the grounds.

No sooner had his escorts left, did Snape sweep in through the fireplace and announce ominously, "you are summoned."


	2. Summoned

**Chapter 2: Summoned**

"What?" Draco asked, but already a sinking, sickening, deepening dread was coiling in the pit of his stomach.

"The Dark Lord has summoned you, Draco, we must go. Now," Snape's voice sounded unsettled, and that wasn't helping. Draco simply nodded. Snape looked at him for a moment, and then said more softly, but in the same urgent tone, "you will anger him more if we delay." Draco's mouth felt dry and he nodded again, his jaw set, and moved to follow Snape out toward the floo. Snape stopped him. "You'll have to go side-along," he said, and led Draco out a side entrance.

Once outside, Snape turned to Draco and looked him squarely in the eyes. "The Dark Lord is furious with Lucius. He will most likely punish you for your father's mistakes, in that much Professor Dumbledore is correct. My loyalty to the Dark Lord," and he paused on that phrase, "requires me to deliver you to him. You must not provoke him. You must listen and obey. If you do not, I cannot be responsible for you. Do you understand me?" Draco nodded. Honestly, no one is that stupid. "Good. Now give me your wand."

"What?" Suddenly Draco's fear had exploded into blind panic. "No!"

"If you ever want to see it again, give it me. He will take it away if you come to him armed, and you cannot use it outside of school anyway."

Very reluctantly and with the best mutinous glare he could muster under the circumstances, Draco allowed Snape to take his wand from him. He watched the professor tuck it into a pocket of his sleeve, and felt suddenly naked.

"Very well. I expect you will survive the night, but it will probably be quite painful." Draco swallowed. He felt all the blood leaving his face.

Snape muttered something indistinct which most likely lowered the wards around the house temporarily so that they could apparate out unnoticed. He held onto Snape's arm and closed his eyes, and with a spin he felt the sucking, squeezing, crush of apparition.

And then it was over. Draco opened his eyes, and then worried that he might have been splinched, because he couldn't see anything. Snape had him by the elbow and began to tug him forward and Draco blinked a few more times before his eyes adjusted and he was able to see enough to get his bearings. He was in a house. Some dark house, with tapestries over the windows. Dark shapes moved and he could see a cold blue flame flickering in the fireplace in front of him. The flame did not so much light the room as contrast the darkness, and seemed to suck the warmth out of everything. The dark shapes wore the same black, hooded robes he had seen his father wear last year, and each one wore a hideous white mask. Only Snape wore no hood or mask. He led Draco toward the group, which parted for them to pass, and then they stopped in front of a tall, robed figure standing with his back towards them, staring at the cold blue flames.

"Severus," said a cold, high voice.

"My lord, the Malfoy boy," Snape nudged Draco forward and bowed slightly. Draco kept his eyes on the floor. He watched the bottom half of the tall figure turn around and slowly lifted his eyes until he met the cold white face with red eyes and a flat nose like… like a snake. _Gods, he's barely even human, _thought Draco, and he felt himself shiver involuntarily.

"Your family has failed me, Draco Malfoy," the cold, high voice said. Draco didn't know how to respond, or whether he was even allowed to, so he stood still, hands balled at his sides to keep from trembling, lips pressed into a thin line of restraint. "I am gravely disappointed in your father. He has failed me and he will be punished." Draco tried to maintain his composure, but the sight of those cold red eyes on him made his shudder and he looked away. "You cringe when you look at me, Draco, why is that?" asked the high voice calmly.

"My Lord, I'm honoured to look upon you-"

"LIAR!" The voice cried shrilly, and Draco felt a searing pain in his throat and he fell to his knees, gripping his neck and gasping, choking, but unable to inhale. He throat felt like he had swallowed fire. He felt the room spinning as he strained for air, the vein in his temple throbbing, and he gasped through the pain, desperate for oxygen. His mouth was slowly filling with fluid, warm and coppery, and as it spilled out of the sides of his mouth he gagged to see that it was blood. His own blood. He turned terrified, pleading eyes up to the white face, and it smiled. Suddenly the pain released him, and he swallowed the blood in his mouth and dragged in several long, deep breaths, barely holding back tears and nausea. He wiped off the blood that had dripped down his chin and neck, and remained on his knees until the voice whispered,

"Get up." Draco struggled to get to his feet fast enough, stumbling slightly, and he heard a few low chuckles from around the circle. "_Crucio!_" the cold voice cried, and Draco felt searing pain shooting through his spine and pulsing out into every nerve. A scream – his own – echoed in the distance. It might have been seconds but it felt like hours, the pain piercing through his entire body.

When it stopped, Draco found he had fallen to the floor again. He hurriedly stood, stumbling a bit. Behind him, someone snickered. The Dark Lord had turned away from him. He strolled around the circle slowly and stopped at Snape.

"Your turn, Severus."

The crowd around him seemed to have pressed in closer, and their eagerness made his shudder. Severus stepped forward so that he was between Draco and the Dark Lord, and gave Draco a hard look. Nowhere in his features could Draco find even a glimmer of sympathy, or guilt, or fear, or pleasure. His face was a perfect mask of disinterest, and yet his eyes burned with an intensity that told Draco he was sorry. Draco felt sick. Snape's low voice growled "_crucio!_" and Draco collapsed again, pain searing through his body, and he screamed but he could barely hear himself now. It felt longer this time, and when the pain finally stopped, Draco knew he had tears streaming down his face.

"Take him to the cellar. Bring him back in two days." The order wasn't really directed at anyone in particular, but Snape grabbed Draco's elbow and pulled him up, dragging him toward the door amidst snickers. Draco felt drained and disoriented, and allowed himself to be led. He perceived that they were going down, lower and lower, into a dark, cold place. He heard the heavy creaking of a door, and felt himself swept into a room that smelled like mould and human waste. Snape was holding him upright and it was almost too dark to see anything.

"Draco. Draco, look at me," Snape said, his voice quiet and extremely urgent. Draco peered up into the darkness and could just make out Snape's profile in the light of a torch hanging from the wall in the hall outside. Snape muttered, "lumos," and Draco peered into his face, glowing ghostly under the wandlight. "I'm sorry," he said simply, with a tone of resignation.

Draco shivered, and nodded, "'s ok."

"No. But you should be glad it was I and not one of the Carrows."

"Is he going to kill me?" Draco asked quietly, knowing how pathetic he sounded and wishing, as soon as he asked, that he hadn't.

Snape was silent, and the seconds seemed to drag on as Draco contemplated the awful possibility that he would never leave this horrible, dark place.

"I do not think he will kill you," said Snape slowly, "but I do not know." Snape's voice was devoid of emotion and Draco couldn't see his eyes well enough to see anything of how he felt about this. How Draco admired this man's ability to mask himself so completely. Draco could do it under normal circumstances, but how Snape could mask himself under so much pressure was beyond him. He reflected bitterly that he would have to learn soon enough. Snape spoke again, "I will return for you," and left.

It was cold, and almost pitch black, and it smelled like shit. Like literal, actual, shit. But Draco couldn't stand on his legs anymore, and he sank to the ground, holding his knees, and sobbed into his robes.


	3. Marked

Hello lovelies. I'm going to try to update everyday or so since this is mostly finished by now. Please R&R and let me know how I'm doing.

**Chapter 3: Marked**

After what might have been hours, or maybe a whole day, Draco finally awoke to find himself huddled on the floor in a dark stone room, his head pounding in his skull. His hands and feet were sore from the cold and his nose was numb. As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness Draco could see where the foul smell was coming from: an open latrine, nothing more than a pit in the floor in the far corner of the room. He shuddered, but willed himself to his feet, and folding up his robes, he tried to pee from as far away from the latrine as possible, while holding his breath. Then he returned to the wall next to the door and huddled on the floor, miserably cold and holding back vomit.

Sometime in the next day, Snape returned. Draco felt himself dragged up out of the dungeon and into the same dark room with a cold blue flame in the fireplace, to be presented again to the Dark Lord. An even larger crowd of Death Eaters were visible, and as Draco looked around he saw a few shapes he recognized. Then, as he reached the end of the circle, his stomach lurched. _Mother_. Her face was not hidden beneath a hood or mask, she stood bare-headed and frightened, dark rings around her bloodshot eyes, her long blond hair lustreless, her mouth pressed together into a thin grey line.

Draco was still staring at her when the pale figure turned to him and spoke,

"What will you offer me in exchange for your life, Draco?" The Dark Lord asked. Draco wasn't prepared for this, but he figured he had only one choice.

"I… I will… serve you, my Lord. I will replace my father." Some of the surrounding Death Eaters scoffed, others seemed genuinely perturbed. Draco felt unaccountably small, but he held his chin up and willed himself to meet the cruel red-eyed gaze.

"What good would a servant like you be to me? To us?" The Dark Lord asked, waving his hand to indicate the group surrounding them.

"I… I can get into Hogwarts, my Lord. I can be a…."

"A spy?" the Dark Lord offered with a cold, unnatural laugh. Some of the others chuckled. Snape's expression was typically unreadable but he seemed… cautiously curious. Emboldened, Draco straightened his posture and looked up at the Dark Lord, biting back the nausea that threatened to erupt at any minute.

"I can serve you in any way you want, my Lord." The red eyes flashed with something that made Draco shiver.

"I will consider it," the Dark Lord replied, and then, "now go!" before turning to discuss something quietly with Snape. Draco quickly found himself flanked by Dolohov and someone he didn't recognize, but he heard his mother's shoes clicking on the floor behind them and was more than grateful when they found themselves alone in the darkened front hall of the old mansion. His mother looked at him, a watery rim of imminent tears along her lower lids. She's angry, then, Draco thought to himself. She rages when she is scared, but she cries when she's angry.

She contained herself long enough to apparate him side-along back to the Manor.

"What were you thinking?" she shrieked. Several nervous house-elves scuttered away as she threw off her cloak and strode angrily across the foyer, her steps now clack-clacking loudly on the marble floors. Draco followed her, frowning, but found he didn't have the composure to do more than that. He hadn't eaten in… well not since the Hospital, and that had been… _gods_… that had been two days ago? Three? Draco's throat felt dry and he really needed a proper toilet, but his mother was so livid that he didn't dare ask to be excused just yet.

Nearly an hour later, Draco defiantly stormed out of the sitting room and up to his apartments. He couldn't use magic to ward his rooms, so he ordered a confused-looking house-elf to move a chest of drawers in front of his door. It wouldn't actually make a difference, but he felt better. Now he just needed a bathroom, and a shower, and a toothbrush and he would be alright.

His mother had gone on and on about "not losing one more member of her family to that… that…" but she hadn't finished. And when she told Draco "you sound just like your father" after he insisted that he was doing the right thing for the family and that the Dark Lord would surely reward them, it sounded like an insult, which had surprised and confused Draco so much he had simply stormed out.

* * *

When he was next summoned a week later, Draco walked more boldly as he entered the darkened chamber where the Dark Lord stood, surrounded by several hooded Death Eaters, some masked, some not. His mother shuffled in behind him, and stood at the back of the room. She had not been strictly invited, but she had once been a constant fixture at Lucius' side, and so no one remarked on her presence. Draco approached the circle, which parted for him, and the Dark Lord rose out of his chair and gave Draco a hideous smile, his mouth full of sharp yellow canines. Draco shuddered.

"Your arm," said the high voice, and Draco pulled back his sleeve to reveal his bare forearm. In the haunting blue light from the fireplace, his skin looked almost luminescent.

Horrible fingers, long and white and bony, with sharp claw-like nails, gripped his the bones of his wrist. Draco stared down at them, not daring to raise his eyes to look at the transparent skin, the red reptilian eyes, the flattened, snakelike nose. Draco shuddered involuntarily and clamped down his jaw. The smell – the smell from him was acrid, like bile. Draco tried to control his gag reflex as the horrible cold fingers stroked his arm, running slowly up and down his skin. His fingers were like ice, like death.

The other white hand lifted a wand high above them, and the circle of Death Eaters seemed to collectively hold their breath. Draco winced as the terrible red eyes widened and hissing words spilled forth, and suddenly the white hand whipped the wand and a sharp blue flame shot out of the tip directly onto Draco's skin. It felt like a white-hot brand was being pressed over his flesh, ripping it apart and burning it. Draco's arm tensed and involuntarily jerked away, and he screamed, and begged for it to stop, his body pulling to free his arm, but the white hand had an iron grip on his wrist and he could not break free. Desperation and regret flooded Draco's brain – how could he be so stupid? What was he thinking?

The pain was like being scalded with acid: an itchy, exposed, angry pain that seared up his arm from his hand to his shoulder. He opened his eyes to see the reddened outline of the Mark on his skin, deep layers of his flesh exposed and singed between the lines. Then the white hand holding the wand pressed the tip painfully into the open wound, and Draco watched in horror as black, poisonous ink flowed into his arm, filling in the channels of the brand, bubbling and sizzling the blood it found. Gradually, the image of a snake emerging from the mouth of a skull appeared. As the ink infused his wound, he felt a throbbing in his arm and in his head, and began to feel faint, but he willed himself to stay conscious.

"You will repay your father's debt to me," said a cold voice, His voice. "If you do, I will spare your mother, and I might even spare Lucius." The high voice seemed to find that idea amusing. Draco shivered. "Do not fail me. It would be a shame to see so noble a line as the Malfoy family be… wiped. out."

"I won't fail you," Draco spoke now for the first time, trying to sound like he believed what he was saying. Without turning around, the tall white man hissed,

"Leave us," and all the other Death Eaters, several audibly disappointed, left the room. "Narcissa, Bella. Stay." The two women turned and walked back into the room. When they were alone, the white man turned and looked at the fireplace.

"What must I do?" Draco asked, nervously.

"Kill Albus Dumbledore," came the quiet reply.

Draco gaped. _What?_ The Dark Lord wanted him to kill… _Professor Dumbledore._ _How?_ How could be possibly even get close enough? He thought back bitterly at the scene last week when he had been one on one with the man for the first and probably only time. Draco wasn't sure he could form any words at that moment, so he just nodded dumbly.

"Do not disappoint me," came the high voice again. And then, "go." And Draco turned and walked out, legs shaking, willing himself to make it out of the room and into the hallway, his mother and aunt following him and whispering furiously.


	4. Proteus

_blackcurrent_: thanks, glad you like it!

A slightly shorter chapter, but the next one is going to be up tonight in the morning and it's much longer, I promise. Please R&R, I'm curious to hear what you think about my take on the Dark Mark. Also, I hope you can bear with me and my pacing - summer's almost over, I promise.

**Chapter Four: Proteus**

Draco rolled over onto his arm and groaned. Two weeks later, and it still hurt. Snape had brought him a salve when he came to visit the night after Draco was released from the Dark Lord. He had looked worn and harried, and stalked off before Draco could ask how long it would hurt like this.

Apparently the Mark was much more Dark Magic than magic tattoo. Draco had seen magical tattoos – Flint had one of a Norwegian Ridgeback on his back, and Goyle had his family crest on his chest, something all the Goyle men receive when they turn thirteen, in deference to the Welsh wizarding tradition. Draco remembered seeing Goyle's new tattoo during Christmas break in third year – it had healed instantly. Those kinds of magical tattoos are simple – you use a magical sort of ink drawn on the skin, and once the charm is cast, the ink sinks into the deeper layers of the tissue and binds to the cells. He had never heard of a tattoo produced by cutting a magical brand into the skin and then infecting it with poisonous ink.

So far, the snake was still sleeping most of the day, as it was now. Draco looked down at it. The skull never moved, but the snake stirred slightly as it slept. The ink had filled in the wounds, which carved out in great detail the texture of a serpent. The edges of these intricate cuts were still an angry red, and still weeping blood and some kind of clear yellowish fluid. He just hoped the snake would stay asleep.

And of course, as if on queue, he felt it waking. Draco winced as the head moved to the right, moving the open wound with it. Where previously a snake-shaped gash had hung in a straight line from the skull, pointing directly to his wrist, there now was healed skin, replaced to the right by a curve of new, red, weeping wound in which the magically inked snake sat, smirking at him. Draco shuddered, and reached for the salve Snape had brought him. It did not heal the wound – nothing but time could do that, apparently, though no one would tell him how long. But the salve seemed to calm the snake down. Whoever heard of a tattoo (or photograph, or painting, for that matter?) reacting to a sleeping-aid? The Mark was apparently a variation on a _protean _charm, an _amoebus proteanus,_ or so he'd been told once. But to place _protean_ charm of any kind on a living person apparently required a kind of magic Darker than anything Draco had ever read about at Hogwarts. Perhaps the Malfoy library would be more enlightening.

The snake stirred again, vibrating the red, swollen edges of the wounds. _Gods_, what kind of a mind would create something like this?

Draco groaned at the muffled arguing from downstairs as he slid out of bed and grabbed his dressing gown. Wrapping it around him and tying it at the waist, he padded down the dark hallway – _was I asleep all day?_ – and into the sitting room. The voices grew louder as he approached – Mother and Aunt Bella – and Draco already knew exactly what they were arguing about.

Draco interrupted, "Mother. I can manage perfectly fine on my own." His mother jumped, and turned to him. Quickly stepping toward him, arms outstretched toward his shoulders, she pleaded,

"But Severus can help you, dear. You know how much he cares for you." Draco shrugged her off. "He's always been loyal to the family," Narcissa continued, but Draco scoffed at her. "Loyal? Where was he when father was at the ministry? He knew where Potter was going, I saw him that night!"

"The Dark Lord trusts Snape," she answered in a dangerously low voice. Draco heard: do not question.

"Aunt Bella doesn't." Draco replied quietly.

"Aunt Bella is… bitter. She has sacrificed…" Narcissa sounded distant, and Draco was tired of this argument.

"The Dark Lord has given me this task. He has entrusted me with this mission. I don't need help from you, or Snape, or anyone!"

"The Dark Lord cannot possibly expect you to succeed, Draco, don't you see?"

"You mean you don't expect me to succeed! He believes in me." Draco knew he sounded irrational, knew he was wounding his mother by turning on her, but…

"No, child, he—"

"I am not a child!" Draco cried, petulant and rebellious and fully aware of how very childish he sounded.

"You will always be my child! And I will not let you get yourself kill for… for… that monster!"

"Don't –" Bellatrix whispered harshly.

But Narcissa, ignoring them both, swept out of the room, grabbed her cloak from a bowing house elf, and strode out the door without looking back.

Draco raced after her, and cried "No!" but the quiet swish and pop! told him he was too late. Beside him, his aunt turned and pop! she was gone, too.

_Shit_, thought Draco, and wrapped his dressing gown a little tighter over his bare legs. Well there was no stopping her, anyway. Draco sighed and turned back to the library. He'd been reading about _amoebus proteanus _charms for the last week but it was time to get down to the real research. How… _how in the world?_... was Draco going kill, or at least give the impression that he was trying to kill, his Headmaster?

Despite his objections, Draco wasn't entirely averse to Snape's help, which he was pretty sure his mother knew. By going to ask Snape herself she was saving him face, and he knew that. But frankly, Draco wasn't sure he could trust Snape. Any other mission and he might have helped, but killing Dumbledore? Snape might pretend to be on the side of the Revolution but Draco remained unconvinced.

* * *

Snape swept in through the open library door a a couple weeks later to find Draco curled up in an armchair, reading. Draco looked up and nodded at his professor, promptly returning to his book. Snape stood in the doorway of the giant library before huffing and walking in to deposit a small jar on the table next to him.

Draco looked up, and then at the jar, and muttered, "Thank you, sir."

Snape snorted dismissively, and Draco took this to mean, 'I hope you're doing better, can I have a look?' and responded accordingly, pulling up his sleeve to reveal the raw, black, oozing snake-shaped wound. "It's getting better, see?" Pretending not to want to lose his place, Draco handed the open book to Snape and then proceeded to slowly fiddle with the lid, surreptitiously watching his professor glance, and then look again with narrowing eyes, at the open page.

"A _protean_ potion? I hope you're not planning on attempting to brew anything this advanced, Draco. You're passable record in Potions notwithstanding, this is far too advanced for most potions masters alive today. Not to mention, highly illegal." Snape had obviously interpreted correctly that Draco wanted him to read the page, but had mistaken the reason.

"Oh, it's just a bit of light reading, Professor. A casual interest," Draco answered, still fidgeting with the lid. Snape, of course, did not believe him for a second. Draco rubbed the salve into the snake, who drowsily closed its eyes. _Exactly_, thought Draco. What kind of image responds to a salve? He began fiddling with the lid, his hands too slippery to get it on properly.

"Draco, these kinds of potions aren't even lethal, I don't see how this can possibly aid you in fulfilling your… objective…" he pronounced that last word in a lower register, "unless you plan to enslave all of Hogwarts, but I assure you, you do not have the faculties necessary to control that many people, since you are obviously incapable of the simplest tasks would you please just give that to me?" Snape snapped, agitated by the uncanny smile twitching at the corners of Draco's mouth, no doubt.

Draco accepted the book back and surrendered the jar, and watched, smirking, as Snape twisted it shut and returned it to him with a growl. Snape had possibly connected the two – well Draco was pretty sure that he had already made that connection the moment he read the page – and now was trying to decide if Draco had, also.

Glancing casually at the book, then meeting Professor's eye with a look of exasperated oh-don't-worry, he remarked,

"No, Professor, I'm not planning on brewing one of these. A little beyond 6th year potions, as you say. Not exactly covered on the NEWTs, is it? No, I was just doing a little research on my new… companion."

Snape must have read him pretty accurately because he asked, slowly, "How do you mean?"

"Well, you see, professor -" Draco began, reaching for a bookmark on the table beside him when suddenly a jolt of pain shot through his arm from fingertip to shoulder-blade, and he dropped the book, gripping his arm.

He stared down are the snake, now writhing furiously, tearing his through his flesh with every merciless undulation. Draco looked up at Snape in horror and in answer Snape merely pushed up the sleeve of his own arm and exposed his own healed Mark, blackened almost as much as Draco's, and moving. "We are being summoned. We must go." Draco gulped, the pain in his arm making it difficult for him to think. _Gods,_ hopefully it wasn't always this bad. He stood up from his chair, book and salve forgotten, and followed Snape out of the room.


	5. A Shack Up North

_blackcurrent_: yes, he will, but it may take him a while before he realizes that he is not his father and doesn't want to be.

**Chapter 5: A Shack Up North**

They apparated side-along into the hallway of the cold, dark house, and almost instantly Draco felt the pain in his arm begin to dissipate. The reward of obedience. Snape immediately started walking toward the great hall where Draco had been several times now, though this is the first time he had ever walked in as a Death Eater himself, and he tried to assume the posture of someone who belonged. He did not have a robe, though, or a mask, which only meant he would have to steel his face to give off the confidence he didn't feel. Draco took a deep breath and stepped over the threshold into the dark room.

The cold blue flame was flickering in the fire-place. The Dark Lord was deep in conversation with two Death Eaters Draco had never seen before. Pettigrew was groveling in a corner nearby. Other clusters of Death Eaters spoke quietly among themselves. The air was tense, and those nearest the door looked up when they entered. Snape seemed to sense the electricity in the room, because he smoothly swept them to a further wall, turned Draco to face him, and began transfiguring his robes so that a large black hood grew from the collar – Draco felt the soft weight of it as the folds of black fabric alighted on his head and folded down over the sides of his pale blond hair. "Get out your wand and watch me," Snape muttered, and Draco obeyed.

Snape held his wand to his chin and pronounced "_aspectus oscuro_" and wisps of white smoke whirled out of his wand to form a solid white mask over his face. Snape waved his wand, "_finite_" and the mask evaporated into smoke again, and disappeared in to the darkness.

"Now you," Snape said, glancing up in the direction of the Dark Lord. Draco tried, but the first few times he only managed to produce a few formless wisps that disappeared. Snape was not even watching him anymore, having turned his attention to the rest of the room. Eventually Draco managed to get a soft, transparent shield of white smoke to hold in front of his face. Snape glanced back at him and grunted "pathetic," which Draco took to mean, 'pretty good.' Snape waved his wand in front of Draco's face, vanishing the pale wisps, then pressed his wand to the tip of Draco's chin and a solid mask appeared to obscure Draco's face completely. Draco reached up a hand curiously to his face and felt the mask, a solid, cool material that felt like porcelain. The spell seemed to imitate a mask, but Draco could see through the eyes as though they were his own.

"Thank you," Draco whispered, and Snape merely grunted and stalked off toward the Dark Lord leaving Draco along in a room full of Death Eaters. Fellow Death Eaters, he tried to remind himself. He walked around slowly, overhearing snippets of conversations. The mask was liberating, and when he walked past Greg and Vincent's fathers, he was unspeakably grateful that they could not recognize him.

It was hours before anything else happened. Draco leaned against a wall and, after some experimentation, discovered that he could close his own eyes without the mask's eyes closing (which, when he realized this, was pretty obvious, of course, since the mask was entirely immoveable). Still was no way he could relax enough in that room to do let down his guard. So he just waited. Frankly, he started think this was pretty lame, this whole Death Eater meeting. He had expected battles, or secret missions, but this was just dull, if you ignored the fact the pretty much every person in that room hated his Father and would gladly take it out on him. Snape found him once or twice, muttered something about him slouching, which Draco understood to mean, 'I came to see if you are still ok.'

Finally, when Draco was sure it must be near dinner time, three more Death Eaters wearing boots and heavy coats, much too warm for July, stomped in briskly and announced, "we've got him, my Lord."

A flurry of tense whispers flooded the room until the Dark Lord raised a hand for silence. He smiled a hard, cruel smile and looked around the room. "The Traitor has been found. Let us go take what is ours."

Amidst the rustling of anticipation that followed, Draco felt the firm grip of Snape's long fingers around his elbow and he allowed himself to be pulled toward the door and into the hall. Without warning, Snape spun them and Draco felt the squeeze of apparition followed by a blast of freezing cold air. He looked around. They were on a windblown hillside in complete darkness and it was freezing. In the distance, he heard the undulating sound of waves. "Where –" he began, turning to Snape, who muttered warming charms over each of them and bent down to pick up - something... a small rock? - before he looked around and said, "Orkney," and pocketed the stone in his robes.

The soft pops and cracks of other apparating Death Eaters sounded along the hillside, though the sounds were mostly carried away in the wind. Draco started his next question, "who," but his voice was drowned in a gust of wind and Snape began walking away from them down the hill to little valley where a lone cottage stood in the shadow of the hill. A light was on within. Draco felt the tingle of wards coming down and going up around them, as the Death Eaters broke through the protections around the cottage and replaced them with their own.

Draco felt his heart racing and he lagged behind. There must have been a silencing charm on the cottage because Draco couldn't hear anything, but he saw the bright red lights that lit up the cottage and shone out across the dark ground outside as the others quickly filed in. A splash of red light against the dark hillside revealed the silhouette of a man, his hands held up in defense, then darkness. Draco stood, frozen, until another flash revealed a looming figure with wand raised, and Draco shuddered. He knew he could not delay any longer, and finally he took a deep breath and crossed the threshold.

Immediately his ears were assaulted with a cacophony of horrible screams but the room was full of cloaked bodies crowding around the source and he couldn't see anything. He heard different voices, in turn, calling out "_crucio_," and it seemed to go on forever. Draco wondered how long it would take for the victim to die if they just kept this up. And he hoped desperately that he would not be required to join in, because he wasn't sure he could do it. Not out of moral quandary, necessarily, but sheer exhaustion. He glanced around the room and found Snape, and tried to get closer to him, but a large man - Dolohov?- blocked his way, so he just leaned against the wall and tried to hold down the nausea.

Finally, someone cast a _silencio_ on the victim, and a hush fell on the room as the Dark Lord held up a hand for quiet.

"We have something special prepared, do we not, Severus?" Draco held his breath and watched as Snape pulled a vial from his sleeves and handed it to the Dark Lord with a small bow of the head.

The Dark Lord swept his arm and everyone backed up so that a circle was formed around the whimpering, pleading, bound body of... Igor Karkaroff.

He spared his victim a glance before turning to the circle surrounding them. "This is another of Severus' charming additions to our arsenal. Care to tell them about it?" he asked, but Snape sneered silently. He looked slightly paler than he had a moment ago. "Very well," the cold voice continued, "why don't we just show you."

He waved his wand and suddenly Karkaroff was floating in front of him, whimpering and pleading soundlessly, his body wrapped around with thick leather straps tying his arms by his sides. The Dark Lord stepped closer to him and almost tenderly touched his chin to open his mouth, muttering a quiet "_haurio_" as he uncorked the little vial and poured it down the terrified man's obliging throat. The Dark Lord drew one long white finger over his chin to collect the drops that trickled down the side of his mouth and then dipped it in between Karkaroff's parted lips. Beside him, Draco heard Dolohov's breath hitch.

A tense hush had fallen the crowd. Karkaroff, still suspended in the air and now spinning slowly as though hanging from an invisible spider's thread, seemed to be waiting like everyone else to see what the potion would do.

Suddenly his face contorted and when someone removed the silencing charm his screams reverberated off of the walls of the small room. But nothing seemed to be happening… he was just screaming and writhing in agony, his eyes wide. And then, something in his leg made a cracking noise, like an explosion, and something sharp and white burst out of his shin, slicing through the muscle and flesh.

Draco swayed where he stood and looked away from the man, seeking out the faces of the other Death Eaters. About half of them wore masks, and those who did not had expression of mixed horror and delight. The Dark Lord seemed to be looking around, also, and shortly spoke up,

"The potion attacks the marrow, making it boil and turn to gas. As it expands, the bones crack like glass."

Two more cracks, and sharp shards pushed through to expose a humerus, and an ulna. More cracks in his legs and one of his collar-bones: razor sharp white blades jutting from wounds that were now liberally bleeding. The screaming had amplified again, until a sickening crunch turning his screams to gurgling and blood began to spurt from his mouth. Draco forced himself to look and saw ribs, cracked, and jutting out of his filthy, bloody chest at odd angles.

"The ribs are so thin that they usually splinter, and bones shards become like missiles propelled throughout the chest cavity, destroying the lungs," the Dark Lord added, by way of explanation, in a matter of fact tone of voice that suggested he was instructing a group of third years in transfiguration. Draco looked away again and found Snape looking pale, a hard expression on his face, looking directly at Draco's mask. His face was indecipherable, but his eyes burned with the same intensity that he had seen when he had tortured Draco.

"The skull..." the Dark Lord continued, and Draco closed his eyes and tried to breath deeply and slowly to keep himself from vomiting, or passing out, or both. The Dark Lord was saying something about the skull cracking when Draco heard a sickening crunch and then someone nearby began retching and without thinking Draco turned and ran out the door, waving his mask into wisps of smoke, and vomited onto the cold, hard ground. He leaned against the cottage wall breathing heavily, stopping now and then to spit the acid out of his mouth, until people began to file out of the building. A few people chuckled at him, and someone clapped him roughly on the back so that his knees nearly buckled beneath him. Then he heard Snape's familiar voice behind him, somewhat hoarser than normal, saying,

"Follow me." Draco obeyed, and within minutes he found himself apparated back into his own foyer where he collapsed onto the marble floor.

* * *

Goddamn werewolf. If he didn't show up soon… Severus looked at the horizon. It was still afternoon but the moon was going to rise any minute and if that mangy wolf didn't get here – crack!

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of someone apparating in the forest behind him. He turned to see a man in ragged, patched clothes, with wind-blown hair and a day-old beard, coming toward him.

"You look terrible."

The man rolled his eyes weakly, and answered, "nice to see you too."

Severus pulled a flask out of his pocket and handed it to him, and he drank it in two large gulps, shuddering as he swallowed the last of it.

"Thanks," he offered, trying to rinse out the slime in his mouth and returning the empty flask.

Severus pocketed it and looked away. "Karkaroff is dead."

"When?"

"Last week. In Orkney," Severus pulled out a small round stone and handed it to Lupin, who fingered it slowly and then deposited it in his pocket.

"Harry's sixteen tomorrow," Lupin observed. Severus didn't answer. He really, really did not need to be reminded of the other insolent teenager in way over his head that Severus was supposed to be protecting. The new one was bad enough.

After a pause, Lupin spoke again: "you weren't at the meeting last week."

"I was in Orkney."

"The week before?"

"_I _was there. _You_ were with Fenrir terrorizing muggles."

Lupin opened his mouth like he might say something, but shut it again.

They stood side by side looking out at the slowly rising moon. Lupin wouldn't transform until nightfall, thankfully. Afternoon moons are problematic because you have to be ready earlier, but at least you have time, if you miss your dose, to get away somewhere.

"Did Dumbledore tell you about his hand?" Lupin asked a little too casually. Severus sneered at his transparency.

"So I suppose he didn't tell you?" Severus answered, and Lupin blushed, grumbling something under his breath. "But I suppose he's doesn't want to upset the poor, grieving werewolf -"

"Severus," Lupin whispered, and it sounded like a plea.

Severus reached out a hand and lightly stroked the side of Lupin face, crooning in a parody of sympathy, "after all, losing man's-best-friend-"

"Stop…" Lupin swatted his hand away, his voice rising, and Severus smirked and changing tack.

"Speaking of more-than-friends, how is that lovely metamorph of yours, by the way? Tell me, Lupin, can she grow a-"

"_Don't_…" Lupin interrupted again, his eyes growing fiery, but Severus continued, undaunted.

"Can she grow a cock for you when you feel the itch to-" but Severus was interrupted by a fist to his jaw that sent him reeling in the opposite direction.

"Fuck you, Snape," Lupin spat, and stalked back into the woods.

Severus rubbed his jaw and smirked.


	6. Knockturn Alley

Summer's almost over! Also – enter Harry (although not like _that_ for sometime, I'm afraid. Still, though.)

_[Also important to note, from here on out, __**bold**__ lines are taken and/or paraphrased from the text by JKR and are not mine.]_

**Chapter 6: Knockturn Alley**

"The green really does suit you, darling."

"I know, Mother. "

"We still need to go to Flourish and Blotts –" Draco's Mother started, but he heard the soft tinkle of someone entering the shop, and quickly interrupted her.

"Honestly, I'm **not a child, in case you haven't noticed, Mother. I'm perfectly capable of doing my shopping alone."**

He emerged from behind the clothes rack to stand in front of the mirror, but out of the corner of his eye he had already seen them. I powerful hatred seethed in Draco and he carefully willed himself not to look up from his own reflection until he had mastered his expression. Finally, with his face a mask of disdain, he looked up and saw their reflections staring back at him.

"**If you're wondering what that smell is, Mother, a Mudblood just walked in."**

Malkin squeaked and protested, Potty and the Weasel made a few idle threats, Draco's Mother asserted herself gracefully, and the Mudblood whimpered like a scared dog. Potter had a look of utter, unabashed hatred when he glared into Draco's Mother's face, it was almost alarming. But Draco's Mother, who had been absorbing herself in worry for Draco and withholding the anger that he knew was seething underneath the concerned hovering, began to surface. Draco was taken aback by her forcefulness in the face of the boy who had sent her husband to prison – and it was clear she viewed him exactly that – the upstart, the guilty party. For all his pathetic protests in front of the other students at Hogwarts, Potter had fully stepped into the shoes of the Young Hero and was obviously loving it. _Pathetic._

Suddenly, Draco felt a cool finger on the inside of his left wrist, and panic rushed over him. Malkin was back to puttering over the robes, and she was trying to lift his left sleeve and without thinking Draco winced.

"**Watch where you're sticking those pins, woman!"** He barked, adding** "I don't think I want these anymore, Mother,"** and threw down the robes before storming out and – nearly walking into a boulder. No, not a boulder. The mangy Half-Breed gamekeeper. Draco steered around the Brute and glared at him, but Hagrid merely huffed and looked away. That's Potter's guard, then. Pathetic. Honestly, how he has managed to stay alive this long is a mystery. Why couldn't the Dark Lord have ordered Draco to kill _him_. Surely that wouldn't be too hard. Just hand him a broom and hire a Dementor.

Thoughts of his mission quickly distracted Draco, and he turned to his mother as she caught up to him, her lips still pressed into a thin grey line. "Eeylops first," he announced, and she nodded and followed, easily submitting to him as she easily submitted to his father whenever she is shaken. The pang of regret and anxiety on behalf of his father tightened Draco's chest, and in a moment of weakness, he extended his arm and allowed her to take it. After all, he'd be gone from the house soon. And after that, who knows? Might as well.

After Eeylops and a long trip to Twilfitt and Tattings, Draco felt he had calmed her down enough to do what he needed to do now. Walking out the door he took her arm again. "Why don't you go to Flourish and Blotts for the books, and I'll go to the Apothecary? I know how you hate the smell of that place," he offered, and handed her the book list for the year and looked pointedly at her. She pursed her lips, but nodded, not fooled at all. Draco knew she knew where he was going, but she didn't say a word, merely nodded and floated down the street to the bookstore.

Draco walked past the Weasel place, looking behind him but the street was deserted. He walked quickly, his heart racing, and turned left through the darkened doorway and down the little crooked stairs that led to Knockturn Alley.

The streets were deserted. He hadn't been here since last summer, but he wasn't surprised. Thankfully, Borgin was still in business. Draco walked through the door, hearing the welcoming, off-key tinkle of someone sharp hanging over the door-frame.

"Mr. Malfoy, what can I do for you today?" Borgin's tone was dismissive, and it irked Draco immensely.

"This," he indicated the black cabinet. "Does it work?"

Borgin eyed him carefully, obviously trying to judge whether or not Draco actually knew what it was. When Draco held his eyes, he answered slowly, "yes."

"Good. I'll take it. But I want you to keep it here."

"Here?"

"Yes." And Borgin frowned. Obviously he was considering how seriously he needed to take Draco, but Draco wanted to be very careful in his timing of any threats. Presently, he continued, "I already have one, but it's broken."

"Ah, yes, tricky things," Borgin answered, intrigued but trying to hide it.

"**Can it be fixed?"**

"**It would be hard to do, may be impossible, without bringing it in."**

"Find a way," Draco ordered, and Borgin looked incredulously at him. Draco had known Borgin wouldn't take him seriously without a heft of a real threat, but he was reluctant… _Fuck it_. Draco assumed his most authoritative tone, a drawl that sounded almost like his father, and stepped around to the side of the counter to say,

"Maybe this," he pulled up his left sleeve, "will help motivate you."

Borgin's eyes widened and his sneer disappeared as his eye fell upon the still-raw-looking Mark. Draco felt an intoxicating rush of power as the man in front of him shrank away.

"Find a solution," he commanded, and to his great delight, Borgin nodded nervously. **"And this one,"** he said, indicating behind him, **"just don't sell it to anyone."** Draco wouldn't put past the old man to take payment from someone else, blame it on an error, just to be rid of it.

"**Fenrir Greyback,"** Draco began nonchalantly, adding casually, **"he's a family friend, you know," **and Borgin's eyes widened deliciously, **"he'll be checking in with you to make sure you're giving the problem your full attention."**

"**I'm sure there's no need for—"**

"**I'll decide that,"** Draco snapped, and Borgin cowered. _Oh. Oh the power._

Borgin nodded again, and then bowed deeply and Draco felt a surge of intense and overwhelming pleasure as the man submitted himself to his will.

This had been well worth the risk of exposure, he thought, as he walked back toward Diagon Alley, smiling to himself. This was worth the whole ordeal, all of it. It could all be worth it for the _power._

Draco's Mother didn't ask him about the smile he wore when he met her outside of Flourish and Blotts, and despite the nervous glances on the way home, she didn't say anything.

* * *

The idea had come to him like a bolt of lightening in the middle of the afternoon on a Tuesday. It was Tuesday, and that mattered, because Tuesday is the day that the entire house is empty (Father, normally, would have been at Wizard's golf, and Mother is at a Champagne and Caviar brunch in London). The house-elves had part of the day off, and were obliged only to take care of Draco. Usually they were given to socializing, certainly not since Dobby had been rejected (albeit accidentally) by Malfoy Sr. four years ago, and then Winky just two years ago, which had struck a new kind of terror in them ever since.

But Draco remembered, as child, that they would tell him stories on those long, lonely Tuesdays. One in particular, about a cabinet. A… disappearing cabinet? No… a "vanishing" cabinet. They had told him how the noble Malfoys had used a vanishing cabinet during the Great War to hide valuable heirlooms and important people. But the vanishing cabinet, they explained, did not always work. Sometimes, valuable things would go in, and never come out. Dark magic, too Dark, they would say, and shiver. Once, a girl had been hidden in the cabinet, and disappeared. Her rotting corpse was found three weeks later, inside the hollow of a tree at the edge of the property. Draco knew the tree – it marked the boundary of the Malfoy lands, and he was never permitted to go near it.

He'd believed the story whole heartedly, and never ever climbed into any cupboards or cabinets to hide from his Father's rage, or ever went near that tree. But once Draco got to Hogwarts, he'd asked around, and discovered that many of his Slytherin friends' families had vanishing cabinets, also, but none of them had a story like his attached to it. He had since considered the story a fairytale designed to keep him from hiding from punishment, or leaving the Malfoy property lines.

But what if…?

Well, there was an unmistakable similarity between that story of the girl and the story Montague had told about being trapped in a between-space after being shoved in a closet, before ending up in a toilet. Except, hadn't Montague said he was floating between two places? He only ended up in the toilet because he'd apparated.

"Mother?" He asked casually over breakfast the next morning.

"Mmm?"

"Didn't we use to have a vanishing cabinet?"

"Mmm." His mother looked up her newspaper at him, her eyes sharpened, but her face a mask of disinterest. Draco wasn't fooled, but she didn't elaborate, forcing him to press for more.

"Whatever happened to it?"

"Oh honey, that was so long ago. You were just a baby. Your father got rid of it, dear, after…" but she didn't finish, because 'after…' always meant, 'after the Dark Lord disappeared.'

* * *

Well Draco was now pretty sure he knew where it had been for the last 15 years – sitting at Borgin and Burke's. Figures. Now the question was, could he fix connection between them? And could he get the one at Borgin's into the Manor, or get Mother to Borgin's, somehow.


	7. On the Train

_TrinityLost:_ Thanks! I'm glad you like my Draco, I'm trying to keep him as in-character as possible, which is why the pairing will take a while. But there is already an inkling… as you'll see.

So, we're finally at Hogwarts! I made some changes to the order of events at dinner, forgive me. It just worked out this way.

_[As previously, __**bold**__ lines are taken or paraphrased from the text by JKR and are not mine.]_

**Chapter 7: On The Train**

Draco closed his eyes and relaxed the muscles in his neck. Pansy's fingers were threading gently through his smooth hair, stroking his scalp. He could literally feel the tension melting away. Everything was going to be ok. He would find a way.

At Hogwarts, he would be free from his Death Eater duties – no more public punishments, no more veiled threats of assault from men out to get revenge on his father. He had until Christmas to complete his mission. Easy. Pansy would stay in line if he could bring himself to fuck her. Vincent and Greg's would stay loyal so long as their fathers did. He'd see where Blaise and Nott stood, but not yet, not right now. Right now he was going to relax under Pansy's soothing fingers. It might not be so bad, fucking her.

Blaise entered the compartment and spared Draco and Pansy a brief look of disgust before seating himself by the window. Pansy continued her grooming, and Draco saw Blaise scowling out of the corner of his eye. _Interesting_.

Within minutes, a third-year who looked like she might faint stood in the doorway of the compartment to find Vincent, Greg, Blaize, Pansy, and Draco gazing in abject disinterest.

She stuttered something and thrust out a sealed scroll toward Blaize, then bolted.

"What is it?" Pansy asked.

"It's an invitation to lunch from Professor Slughorn."

"Who?"

Blaize shrugged. "New professor," he said as though he wasn't remotely surprised, and stood up.

"What does he want from _you_?" Draco asked. Blaize merely shrugged, and strolled out.

An hour later he returned, with Potter.

Well, Blaise apparently didn't know he had returned with Potter, but Draco wasn't blind – he'd seen the door jamb, he'd seen the trainer disappear. A surge of bitterness about Hogsmeade in third year distracted Draco from the smug expression beneath Blaise's mask, which is why Draco made the fatal error of mentioning his Father (old habits die hard).

Blaize immediately pounced.

"**I don't think Slughorn's interested in Death Eaters,"** he said coolly.

It was as much a jab at Draco's father as an accusation directed at Draco. The others were silent, feigning indifference but listening intently. And Potter was in the room.

Draco would have to respond. He could dismiss the proposition. He could disassociate himself from his father. Or he could answer the challenge. Draco chose the latter.

"**Whose cares what some professor thinks? I mean, I might not even be here next year,"** he remarked. Blaise rolled his eyes, but he was obviously intrigued. Vincent and Greg looked vaguely confused. Pansy, predictably, probed.

"**It's just that I might have moved on to bigger and better things. After the Dark Lord takes over, do you think he's going to care how many NEWTs you have? No. The only thing that will matter is loyal service."**

Vincent and Greg looked somewhat relieved, actually, anticipating a new world order in which brawn might be more valuable than brains.

"**What would he want from you?" **Blaise had asked, dismissively. It sounded like, 'what could he want from you?' but Draco knew it meant 'what _does_ he want from you?' He was playing with fire. Potter was listening, Blaise's interests were House dominance, and Draco needed to walk a fine line… keep them both guessing.

He simply shrugged off all further questions, and soon enough they were pulling into the station and putting on their school robes.

"**Go one ahead, I want to check something,"** Draco dismissed Pansy, who had waited like she wanted something. Once the compartment was empty, Draco turned to the rack.

"_**Petrificus Totallus**_**!"**

Suddenly something heavy was crashing down to the floor of the compartment. Draco reached out and pulled back an invisibility cloak to reveal a wide-eyed, frozen Potter staring up at him, a grimace fixed on his face. Draco felt a rush of cruel pleasure, and without thinking about it, kicked the boy hard in the nose, relishing the sound of crunching bone.

"**That's for my father, **" he spat. Then he bent down over the other boy, whose angry eyes were glaring daggers behind the frozen mask of his face. **"You didn't hear anything I care about, Potter,"** which was not entirely true, every word of it had been intended for Potter's ears as much as for the Slytherins.

Draco bent down close, so that his lips were almost touching the fine little hairs behind the other boy's ear, and whispered, "I'm going to make your life a living hell this year, Potter."

He threw the cloak back over the boy and left, stopping only long enough to wish him a pleasant ride back to London.


	8. Dinner

Just a note: I sort of rearranged the order of events at dinner. It just worked out that way. Think of the canon as Harry's unreliable memory.

**Chapter 8: Dinner**

Draco stepped off the train onto a mostly deserted platform, and groaned at the uncomfortable tightness in his trousers. He adjusted himself under his robes as he walked up to the castle, chuckling at his literal lust for power. How delightful, this new aggression. Usually he let Crabbe and Goyle take care of this kind of manual labour, but right then Draco decided he was going to personally handle Potter from now on. This year would probably be Draco's last at Hogwarts and he was going to savour every minute of it.

He strolled off toward the carriages. Potter would no doubt be missed. There would probably be a whole team of fucking aurors searching the train in the next twenty minutes. And anyway, it wouldn't do Draco one iota of good to have Potter disappear – he needed his handiwork openly displayed to potentially mutinous Slytherins.

Draco walked leisurely up behind one of the last carriages waiting to take students up to the castle, but as he turned around the side to climb in, he froze.

In front of each carriage, which ought to have been pulling itself by magic, stood a horrific, dark, dragon-like horse. Its skin was like black leather stretched across bones, and it had giant, bat-like black wings that were folded on its sides.

Draco was repulsed, though his face remained a mask, and he turned to look at the other passengers. Inside were a few pathetic-looking second years, probably Hufflepuffs, who had fallen silent when he approached, but did not appear to notice or particularly care about the horse-bat in front of the carriage. Draco scowled at them and they recoiled, which made him smile (inwardly, of course) and he climbed into the carriage. The second years squished to the side to leave as much room between him and them as possible.

Draco's face remained a mask as they rode up to the castle, but he kept a close eye on the black horse. Once you got past to creepy leather skin and all the bones, it was actually quite graceful. All the limbs moved with fluid strength, and Draco was mesmerized. He wondered what it would look like in flight.

By the time they arrived at the castle, Draco had almost forgotten about Potter, but the cluster of concerned professors reminded him, and he snickered to himself as he walked past them through the front doors. He sat in his usual seat at the Slytherin table, reserved for him by Crabbe and Goyle, and took careful note of all the Slytherins who made eye contact with him and all those who did not. With his father in prison and his family's reputation suffering, he would need to spend more time investing in his position among them this year.

Pansy said hello to Draco as he sat, and Blaise scowled, but then turned and nodded at Draco, who did not respond. _Interesting… how can I use this new development to my advantage?_

Draco looked up at the staff table and saw mostly old faces, and one new addition: an old, frumpy looking man with watery eyes and a self-important posture. Blaise nudged Pansy, and said in a pretend whisper clearly intended to carry to Draco, "that's Slughorn."

Draco's eyes passed over the new face, and then moved along the table until he caught Snape's eye. Snape caught his eye and held it briefly, and he nodded back a little stiffly. Well, at least one more-or-less friendly face.

It would be hard to keep him at bay while Draco tried to figure out how to complete his mission, or at least look like he was trying, because Draco knew he would need to rely heavily on Snape this year if he wanted to keep the Slytherins in line and keep himself from being toppled. Blaise would be his biggest contender. Nott, too. Unfortunately, he would have to manage all of this without the support of the new Slytherin professor. Luckily Snape will predictably hate anyone who teaches Defence, so he'll have his own motivations for making things difficult for Slughorn. That would take care of the attack angle, while Draco worked on the buttering.

_Thank gods_ Crabbe and Goyle's fathers were still cautiously loyal to the family, or this would be almost impossible. The Malfoy name had fallen, but not too far, and Draco knew that very few of the others would be willing to stand up in outright rebellion lest the Malfoy's exact revenge when their fortunes reversed. At least that would still be possible as long as his father to remained in Azkaban, or, at the very least, alive.

Draco sighed. This was all going to be very, very delicate.

The sorting hat was now singing something about "sticking together through tough times" or some such liberal nonsense, but gasps from the Hufflepuff table turned several heads (though not the headless hat) to the doors – a silvery patronus in the shape of an enormously large and lean wolf was running up the aisle. It stopped at the head table and the professors leaned in, as though it was saying something to them. Several Professors frowned, and Draco felt a faint pang of fear when he observed Professor Snape looking directly at him with an unreadable expression on his face. _Shit. _Well he probably won't hold it against me. Snape then stood up and left the room through the side door by the head table.

The hat was still going on about house unity and whatnot, but presently it stopped, and then the long line of first years began to sort. Pulte and Barnacus came to sit with the Slytherins. Loyal families, Draco observed. They glanced up the table toward him, and he deigned to look at them, but kept his face a cold mask. At long last, the last little Hufflepuff sat down, and Dumbledore started talking. Draco usually didn't pay very close attention to Dumbledore, but this year he took special care to listen for anything, anything at all, that might help him with his mission.

Which is why he, too, gasped when he heard Dumbledore announce that Slughorn, not Snape, would be teaching potions this year. _What?_

The rest of the announcements were muffled by furious whispering throughout the hall. Almost as soon as it died down and the students began eating and chattering, the doors to the Great Hall swung open and Potter trudged in covered in blood, followed by Snape, and another round of furious whispering and pointing began.

Potter, the self-centred ass that he is, blushed at the sound, apparently believing the whispering was all about him. _Pathetic_, Draco thought, as he watched the boy sit down between his friends, his face red. Snape, meanwhile, shot Draco a sneer and gracefully glided back to the head table. Potter looked a mess, blood running down his face and all over his collar and the cuff of his robes, though someone had evidently fixed his nose. Shame. Thank gods they had found him, and that Snape had not permitted him to clean up or change, otherwise Draco's display of dominance would have been wasted.

Potter sat down at between Weasel and the Mudblood, and shot Draco a hateful glare, which apparently most of the Slytherin table saw, too, because after Draco had responded with a smirk, he looked around to see most of their eyes on him. He smirked all around, and launched into an exaggerated account of Potter begging for mercy and his own subsequent cruelty. He paused at all the right places, and simulated a feminized voice for Potter's pleas, and managed to get several harsh laughs from around the table. The first years giggled in nervous awe. The seventh years chuckled approvingly. Even Blaise laughed involuntarily at one point, though when Pansy made doe-eyes at Draco, Blaise's scowl returned.

Draco glanced over at Potter regularly, making sure he was watching the whole display. He was. Potter's face had gotten redder and redder and his friends were scowling at the Slytherins for mocking their precious Gryffindor Golden Boy, which only made spurred them on.

After a few more minutes, though, the Sytherins began to turn to one another and gossip about the summer, whispering in two and threes about the real subject underlying rivalry between Draco and Potter: _War_. Students in other houses might be in the dark, but there was no doubt among the Slytherins that the Revolution was imminent and that their destinies lay on the battlefield. Draco sipped his pumpkin juice delicately and sighed in relief. His display had worked to great effect, judging by the cautious eyes from around the table.

Apparently physical violence, meted out personally, was quite an effective supplement to the requisite political intrigues of Slytherin life. How much he had learned from the Dark Lord already, Draco thought to himself. Assertions of personal power masked under the simulation of solidarity. Brilliant.

After dinner, the Slytherin common room would be a minefield of political upheavals. Hesperus Hawk and Albina Harper, whose fathers were also in Azkaban now, had sidled up to Draco outside the Great Hall but had had to carry on without him because Draco had prefect duties and was obliged to lead the first years to the dungeons. Blaise was already walking down the stairs, surrounded by adoring third and fourth years. He smirked at Draco as he walked past. The seventh year Slytherins, however, strolled by, made eye contact, and nodded. This is going to be tough, Draco thought to himself, but maybe not so tough. Fortunately, Crabbe and Goyle hung back to accompany him (much to the intimidation of the younger Slytherins.)

Once all the first years were more or less settled, Draco went into the boys' bathroom and combed his head, straightened his signet ring, and his mask of boredom. He took a deep breath. Time to enter the Snake Pit.

* * *

**Chapter 8b: Weak**

For a horrible moment Severus felt his heart in his throat when he saw the ghost of Remus Lupin loping up to the head table. The moment passed almost instantly and Severus rolled his eyes at himself for being weak. Of course that's no ghost. And what if it were? Still, the Patronus puzzled him, because it really did look exactly like Lupin's werewolf form.

And then it spoke, and he heard _her_ voice. Of course. The love-struck metamorph with daddy-issues. _Pathetic_. He was so disgusted he barely registered what it was saying, and then he heard "Harry" and his eyes shot directly to Draco Malfoy in his customary seat at the Slytherin table. Stupid boy. Between the two of them this year was going to be impossible.

Irritated but unwilling to let the opportunity pass to needle the wolf-groupie, Severus stood and left without comment.

He considered sending his own Patronus down to let them know, that would have been the thing to do, but he wasn't sure whether the girl would recognize his (that is, recognize the reason for it) and he didn't want to risk that Potter would. It would take the bite out of his sarcasm. Besides, he wanted to see Potter's face when he showed up at the gates.

A few snide comments to take a dig at Potter, and then, casually, "**I was interested to see your new Patronus**," he remarked as the gates shut in her face. "**I think you were better off with the old one. The new one looks…. weak**," he sneered at her, and was rewarded with a delightful look of hurt and outrage on her face that made it absolutely worth the effort to come out here and the annoyance of putting up with Potter all the way back to the castle.

That night, after the rest of a long dinner and getting the Slytherin's settled and prefect meetings and staff meetings and updating Dumbledore on the Draco situation, Severus sat in his leather chair in his quarters palming a large glass of scotch and staring at his floo. He could floo-call. It was Sunday night, he was probably at the Burrow right now. But what would he say? Sorry your pet died, and your interchangeable-parts barbie is on commission. Severus took another gulp of his drink, enjoying the burn and the spreading warmth, and got into bed instead. Better this way, he thought. At least the metamorph would be sleeping alone tonight, too.


	9. Potions

_[As previously, __**bold**__ lines are taken or paraphrased from the text by JKR and are not mine.]_

**Chapter 9: Potions**

At breakfast the next morning Snape was his usual surly self, handing out schedules and sneering at questions.

"Mr. Malfoy," he said, his hand held out, waiting for Draco's OWLs letter. Draco watched as Snape glanced down the list. He grunted and thrust the letter back into Draco's hands along with a schedule without comment, which Draco understood to mean, "good job."

Pansy leaned oppressively close to see his schedule, asking, "what're you taking this year?" when she caught a glimpse of his OWLs letter. "Draco! Is that? Did you –" but Draco shushed her and moved to return the letter to his bag when Blaise snatched it and started to read aloud, but stopped when he saw:

Ancient Runes E

Arithmancy O

Astronomy O

Care of Magical Creatures E

Charms O

Defense Against the Dark Arts O

Herbology O

History of Magic O

Potions O

Transfiguration O

Blaise, who had clearly fallen for his mock embarrassment, threw the letter back at him with a huff, adding, "I'm surprised, Draco, that Runes exam was laughable. Of course, you did have other things on your mind…"

But his remark was drowned by Millicent Bulstrode's incredulous, "You got an O in History of Magic? No one gets an O in History of Magic!"

"Some of us actually study," Draco observed, rolling his eyes. He snatched up his letter and gingerly tucked in back into his bag, and turned to his schedule.

He'd chosen to continue NEWTs in Arithmancy, Astronomy, Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Herbology, Potions, and Transfiguration. He looked at his schedule. Not a lot of spare time for everything else he was supposed to be doing. He should probably drop one of these classes. He could drop half of them, really, if he wanted to. He probably wasn't going to be here next year to finish them.

And yet… Draco just couldn't bring himself to. He was happy never to set foot near Hagrid's filthy hovel, or hear Trelawney hazy babbling, or struggle through Binn's deadly drone. But drop Arithmancy? Charms? No, he couldn't possibly. This might be his last year (funny how it turned to "might" and "probably" when he thought about his classes).

If he was honest with himself, he longed to throw his mind into his school-work, if only to distract from everything else he was supposed to the thinking about. Mother. Dumbledore. The Dark Lord. Snape. It was all too much. He fingered the crisp cover of his brand new copy of _Defense Against the Dark Arts, Grade Six_ as he strolled to his first class. Snape teaching Defense, this should be brilliant, he thought, putting everything else out of his mind.

And not ten minutes into class Snape had almost hexed Potter, who had thrown an impressive _protego_ back at Snape, nearly knocking him over.

"**Do you understand the meaning of 'non-verbal spells,' Potter?"**

"**Yes,"** Potter answered defiantly.

"**Yes, **_**sir**_**." **Snape sneered.

"**No need to call me sir, professor."**

Draco coughed and nearly choked on his sugar quill. Did Potter seriously just say that? Draco had to swallow and look away to keep from chuckling.

Seriously, though, if Potter had any idea what Snape was actually capable of - he shuddered as he recalled the sound of Karkaroff's exploding skull. It's amazing Snape hasn't already taken him out, Draco thought. And then he recalled that fierce look in Snape's eyes that night in the freezing cold shack, the same look he had worn when he cast the _cruciatus_ on Draco three months ago. The laughter died in his throat.

After a break in the Slytherin common room full of innuendo about the coming revolution and power plays among the seventh years, Draco went up to his dorm room to collect his potions supplies. He had bought himself new scales, and a brand new silver knife, to replace the old ones he had been using since third year. And he had a new cauldron, like every year. He lifted his supplies case out of his neatly organized trunk, unstrapped the leather flap, and opened it to run his fingers gently over the little glass vials. He'd of course supplemented the rudimentary required ingredients list, like every year. His fingers hovered over the lacewing flies before he shut the case again, closed the strap, and prepared for Potions without Snape.

It was a nightmare.

The sopophorous beans were impossible to cut. Stir as much as he liked, he couldn't get the lilac colour right, all he got was a sort of bluish green. Nott and Blaise were in no better shape. Even the Mudblood seemed frazzled. But Potter. Fucking Potter. Slughorn is so far up his ass, it's no wonder he gave the prize to 'the Chosen One,' the Golden Boy. Like he needs any more fucking good luck. Slughorn is nothing but a fangirl trapped in the body of a fat, frumpy old paedophile_._

The next morning in the Slytherin common room, Blaise was at it again.

"So, Draco, Potter's charmed Slughorn and taken your place in potions. And here I thought your marks in potions had nothing at all to do with the fact that Snape loves the way when you suck his giant…" Blaise paused.

"Nose?" Nott supplied, earning him snickers from the surrounding Slytherins.

"I could never do it better than you, Blaise, I'm sure your _mother_ is quite the expert."

"Speaking of _parents_, Draco –" Blaise began, but Draco rolled his eyes in feigned disinterest and stalked off before he could hear the rest of it.

Irked by Blaise's persistent attempts to undermine him, and Nott's insolence, Draco stormed up the stairs to breakfast with Crabbe and Goyle in tow, and knocked right into Potter.

"What the fuck, Malfoy?" the Weasel spat.

"Ignore him, Ron," Potter growled, and stooping to pick up his books and shove them unceremoniously into his bag. Potter reached out to grab his Potions textbook, which was lying in front of Draco's feet, but just as his hand brushed the worn fabric of the cover, Draco kicked it away.

"Fuck you, Malfoy," Potter growled.

"No thanks, Potter," Draco sneered. Potter's stood up, bag abandoned on the floor. His face was red with anger and he took another step closer, hatred seeping from his pores, his eyes narrowed. Draco glared back, hand gripping his wand inside his robes, waiting. Their faces were mere inches apart, faces flushed with hate and fists balled.

Everyone around them seemed to holding their breath. Draco could hear his heart beating in his ears.

Waiting…

Then Potter closed his eyes, took a deep breath, turned to grabbed his bag out of the Mudblood's shocked hands, and stalked off, a rough "come on" directed at his fawning followers.

Draco turned to watch him go and called "pathetic, Potter." Potter paused, his shoulders obviously tense with fury. But he kept walking.


	10. Maggots

Ah, teenage boys with too much testosterone and too little introspection: a recipe for delight. So, if you like it (or hate it), review it pretty please?

**Chapter 10: Maggots and Mayhem**

Somehow Potter managed to avoid Draco outside the rest of the week. But after lunch on Friday they trooped down to the greenhouses for double Herbology, with the Gryffindorks.

Class got off to an uneventful start: they were re-potting Biting Bulboblossoms, a smelly but generally non-hazardous process so long as you wear gloves and avoid the little mouths full of sharp teeth.

"I'll just be over at Hagrid's to pick up the maggots for my third years," said Professor Sprout. "You've got another five minutes, so be sure to clean up when the bell rings," she called as she left.

As soon as she was out the door Draco turned to Pansy and in a loud voice exclaimed,

"The stench of these things! Though I suppose the Weasel's probably used to everything smelling like garbage. Tell me, does it make you homesick?"

"Shut up, Malfoy," Potter answered, holding back a seething, red-faced Weasel, while the Mudblood muttered something doubtlessly self-righteous into his ear.

"Probably reminds you of home, too, Potter. I bet it smells just like your dead Mudblood mother."

Suddenly there was a commotion of scraping chairs and dropped spades as every one of the Gryffindors stood, but Potter was faster and in three swift steps he was standing right in front of Draco, eyes narrowed, face flushed in fury.

"Say that one more time," Potter growled through gritted teeth.

Draco smiled sweetly and took a step closer. "Your. Dead. Mudblood. Mother," he spat.

Potter swung, but Draco ducked and then swung back, connecting cleanly with Potter's jaw and splitting his lip. Blood and spit went splattering in the direction of his blow, and Potter reached for his mouth, then looked at the blood mingled with potting-soil on his hand. His eyes narrowed dangerously at Draco, who simply sneered. Then Potter struck back. This time, he didn't miss, and a sickening crunch told Draco his nose was definitely broken. He closed his eyes for an instant but he straightened up again quickly and then pushed Potter, hard, ducking Potter's swings, until the boy was backed up against the glass wall of the greenhouse, and Draco pinned his hands to his sides. Then he knocked Potter in the face with his forehead, breaking his nose and glasses.

The Weasel ran up to try to pry Draco's hands away but he elbowed him back, letting go of one of Potter's arms for just a second, and suddenly Potter had grabbed one of Draco's wrists, and for a tense moment their eyes were locked as they battled for dominance, when-

"MR. MALFOY! MR. POTTER!" came the surprisingly authoritative voice of Professor Sprout. "Separate this instant! Twenty points from Gryffindor and Slytherin both."

Draco and Potter pulled apart, glaring, as Sprout approached them, a giant bucket of writhing maggots under one arm. "Detention. Both of you." She said, looking disappointed and put out. Then she pushed passed them as the bell rang inside the castle signaling the end of classes for the day.

Draco sneered, and Potter scowled.

Draco arrived at the dinner table after Herbology to find appreciative nods from several of the seventh years, and a many anxiously admiring glances from the younger students. He regaled them with the fight at Herbology, which they had apparently already heard retold more than once from several of the other students. Draco wished that Potter wasn't there to watch, but he figured that the coward did not want to show up to dinner bloodied again so soon.

Still, Draco was disappointed that Potter didn't come. Every time a late arrival snuck in through the doors at the back of the Great Hall, Draco looked up, almost with anticipation. And when he saw that it wasn't Potter, he was actually disappointed. And he couldn't be sure that he was really disappointed at missing the chance to humiliate him again… or just the chance to interact with him, regardless. Which was entirely too bizarre to even think about, really.

The thought kept him up that night, though. He lay in bed and stared at his clock. Five minutes to curfew. Without even thinking about it, Draco leapt out of bed.

He walked down the dark corridor past the potions classroom, past Snape's warded doors to his office and his quarters, past abandoned classrooms and locked dungeons, on until he reached the back staircase.

It wound around a narrow column at the back of the castle and few students other than the Slytherins even knew about it, much less used it. Certainly no one ever patrolled it.

He started climbing aimlessly, his legs carrying him upward as he tried to clear his head and walk off the irritation that had been building all day, but it seemed like the more he climbed the worse he felt.

When he reached the fifth floor, he paused. He couldn't remember if he'd ever been in the long, largely unused corridor on the fifth floor that led to the back stairs… he turned the corner and stepped out onto the landing and peered down the hallway - a nondescript hallway just like many others in the building.

The stone floors and walls were largely bare, devoid of alcoves or paintings. The only décor in the room seemed to be a massive suit of armor standing, hands clasped over the hilt of a sword, in the middle of one side of the wall.

There were two or three wooden doors, probably leading to abandoned classrooms, or storerooms. And no torches or candles. A remarkably plain, ordinary hallway. Hmm.

Draco was about to turn around and head back to the stairs when he head footsteps coming from the other end of the hall. He wavered for a second – should he risk getting caught out? or risk revealing the back staircase to someone who shouldn't know about it?

Too late. Whoever it was, was around the corner. Draco turned and kept walking down the hall at a brisk pace, away from the tapestry that hid the staircase.

Then he looked up and froze.

"Potter," he sneered.

Potter didn't answer. Draco glared at him and kept walking, his eyes floating up and away. Apparently infuriated by Draco's dismissiveness, Potter stepped into his way, knocking Draco in the shoulder.

The force of the shove caused Draco to turn around, so he grabbed Potter's arm and yanked him back, hard. Potter swung, his fist connecting with the side of Draco's head, and Draco was knocked sideways, bent over. He charged at Potter's waist, pushing Potter back against the wall and almost upsetting the suit of armor, who leapt out of the way at the last minute.

Potter's head knocked into the wall and he seemed momentarily disoriented, but then he kicked his knees up and got Draco right in the gut. Draco let go, backing up and clutching his stomach. Potter followed him, shoving him hard, and he fell to the floor on his side. Immediately Potter was on top of him, legs straddling him, pressing him face down onto the ground. One of Draco's arms was trapped beneath his body, and the other swung desperately but to no avail, and then Potter grabbed it and twisted it roughly behind Draco's back.

Draco stilled, and turned to throw an angry sneer over his shoulder at Potter, hoping he was hiding the trepidation he felt at being pinned like that.

"So, Malfoy. Let's chat." Potter sneered back. "I know you're up to something. I know you're working for Voldemort." Draco winced at the name and Potter frowned at him. "I'm going to find out what it is, and I'm going to stop you."

_He knows about the mission, _Draco thought for an irrational moment, then reminded himself that that was absurd, and Potter's suspicions were based entirely on the vague suggestions he himself had made on the train.

Draco's hoped his face betrayed nothing of the still-genuine fear he felt at the accusation. He wriggled in Potter's grasp, then bucked his hips backward against the other boy to try to unseat him.

And then he Potter gasped.

Draco froze for a second, but decided to ignore the effect that the slightly surprised, slightly questioning gasp had on him.

He bucked again, twisting and writhing until he was on his back but Potter was still straddling his hips, looking down at him, a puzzled frown on his face…

So Draco bucked again, and this time Potter's surprised gasp was unmistakable. Potter had lost hold of his arms in the struggle but he grabbed them again now and pinned them down above his head.

Draco suddenly felt hot and flushed, his stomach vaguely uneasy. He could hear his heart beating in his chest, and he couldn't understand when, exactly, something had changed here. He turned his head away and hoped he would not blush. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Potter's eyes narrowing menacingly.

Then Potter leaned forward until his mouth was just inches from Draco's upturned ear, and Draco couldn't stop the whimper that escaped him at a trickle of hot breath grazed his ear and neck. His jaw clenched, and he held his breath.

Potter bent in a fraction closer, nails digging painfully into the flesh on Draco's arms, and whispered, "faggot."

That word felt like a kick in the stomach, and flashes of cold panic and burning rage welled up in Draco. He could already feel his cheeks burning at the accusation, and he glared venomously up at Potter, but Potter was already getting up, releasing Draco in a single, fluid movement.

Draco moved to get up, but Potter kicked him again in the ribs, and he doubled over unable to think about anything but the pain in his side. He barely even heard Potter stalking down the corridor and around the corner.

Draco pealed his cheek off of the cold stone floor where a pool of spit had gathered. He reached down and pressed the heal of his hand into his erection and groaned. He took a deep breath and schooled his face into its usual, dispassionate mask, then turned on his heel and took the back to the stairs toward the dungeon.

He returned to his dorm shaken and furious. _Goddamn Fucking Potter_. He threw himself face-down onto his bed, kicked off his shoes, and lay there, wide awake and frustrated. He gave it a moment's thought, then hastily rolled onto his back, pushed down his pajama bottoms and tossed off quickly and violently, cursing Potter as he came, before drifting into an uneasy sleep.


	11. Saturday Night

So Draco's getting seduced by power. Also, are you liking the parallel plot lines? While canon-Harry is getting little notes and special sessions with D'dore, Draco's getting little notes and secret Death Eater lessons with Snape. Fun times.

**Chapter 11: Saturday Night**

Draco had decided that the best distraction for… well, for everything… would be Quidditch tryouts. He'd announced them rather on a whim that morning and was now trailing twenty or so hopefuls down to the pitch where, of course, Harry-fucking-Potter was already flying.

"Pitch is reserved, Potter," he drawled. "Despite what you've been told, even the Boy Hero occasionally has to answer to a higher authority." The Slytherins behind him seemed to hang back. Potter came in for a typically showy landing right in front of Draco, his eyes blazing defiantly, and Draco saw something cruel in the flashing green that made him hear the echo of that _word_… and he felt himself shrink back.

Which is when Draco remembered that a host of Slytherins were standing behind him and he decided to punch Potter instead.

The brawl lasted a remarkably short time, because as luck would have it Madame Pince was in the locker rooms pulling out the balls for them to use. She hexed them both without qualms and sent Potter to the infirmary and scolded Draco, which was punctuated by applause by the Slytherins. Draco soaked up the applause like life-blood, relishing the delightful feeling of power flooding him as he watched Potter leave, bloodied and beaten. Despite his increasingly sore knuckles and the twisting feeling in his stomach when he thought about whatever the hell had happened last night, Draco was now thoroughly convinced that this new tactic was exactly what he needed to reestablish himself in Slytherin house, and was well worth what it cost him in points and detentions.

On the way to dinner that night a frightened looking Slytherin first year pulled on Draco's robes and handed him a small scroll, then bolted away down the hall. Curious, Draco unfurled the scroll to find Snape's distinctive, angular writing.

_Mr. Malfoy,_

_Report to my office at 8pm this evening._

_SS_

At eight o'clock, Draco knocked on the office door and entered when bidden. Snape sat at his desk, marking papers.

"I thought Potter had detention," Draco mustered, unable to fully disguise his unease.

"Potter," Snape began, spitting the name as though it were something particularly distasteful in his mouth, "has been granted a reprieve. _You_ are not so lucky." He paused, and drew a short breath that made Draco unaccountably nervous.

"The Dark Lord wishes to see you," Snape finished. Something cold trickled down Draco's spine at the words.

"What?"

"He wishes to confer with you about your mission, I imagine. We will leave shortly." Snape turned back to his desk and continued marking papers. Draco was too stunned to sit. Then it occurred to him,

"The Mark – it didn't burn."

"It probably will next time," Snape answered. Draco heard, 'I intervened on your behalf,' and nodded in thanks, which Snape responded with a grunt, and returned to his papers.

When it was fully dark they walked out through the front doors and down to the gates. Snape apparated him side-along to the cold, dark house, to find it almost deserted. Pettigrew hovered in a corner, and Nagini slithered on the floor in front of the armchair where the Dark Lord sat, his fingers steepled, staring at the cold blue flame Draco had become so used to. He shivered.

Then the cold, high voice spoke.

"Ah Severus, how is your little protégé?" _Pro_t_égé? Since when am I Snape's protégé?_

"Studious," replied Snape with a sneer. Draco stepped forward and bowed to the Dark Lord, who turned toward him and stared coldly.

"What progress have you made, boy?"

"My Lord," Draco started, trying to think quickly, invent something, anything. "I have begun to –"

"LIAR!" the cold voice called to him, and he felt his throat closing up again, and the blood beginning to pool in his mouth, and he gripped his hands to his throat and pleading in gurgling desperation until, finally, the pain subsided. He gulped the remaining blood, trying to hold down the nausea, and bowed low.

"You have done nothing," the Dark Lord said.

"My Lord," Draco tried to say, but his throat was still raw and all that came out was a raspy sound. And he had no idea what to say anyway. He hadn't really done anything at all, but it was only the first week. He was supposed to have all term, right? He bowed down on his knees instead, paying obeisance and hoping for mercy.

He glanced up to find the Dark Lord looking at him, the red reptillian eyes gazing with a mildly curious expression. Then his voice called out, "Wormtail!"

And Pettigrew scurried over from the corner to cower before the Dark Lord's chair. The Dark Lord raised his wand and suddenly Pettigrew's eyes seemed to glaze over, and he stood, as though transfixed. And then his limbs started jerking wildly as he convulsed in a weird, puppet-like dance. Draco had seen this once before, though the victim had been a spider then. He sat on his knees and simply stared. He felt his lips twisting into a grin as he watched Pettigrew dancing maniacally. His powerless was intoxicating. His eyes, no longer glassy, were now pleading but his body was out of his control. Draco stared, fascinated and conscious that he was still grinning.

When he dared, he glanced up at the red eyes of the Dark Lord and was shocked to find them watching, not Pettigrew, but _him_. He tried to wipe the smile off of his face but then he saw something in the pale features, perhaps a glint behind the eyes, that seemed intrigued, even pleased. The he heard a strange, choking sound like... chuckling?

"Severus," the Dark Lord said, his eyes never leaving Draco's. Snape stepped forward to the chair. "I want you to instruct our youngest member in the art of persuasion." And then Pettigrew fell to the floor, released from the curse. Something glimmered in the Dark Lord's eyes that made Draco shiver, but not entirely unpleasantly.

"You can go," the cold voice simply said, and Draco looked at Snape who indicated the door, so he rose and walked out, waiting in the hallway. Apparently Snape had other matters to confer upon, because Draco was obliged to wait for over an hour in the front hall, freezing in just his school robes. Finally, Snape re-emerged, and throwing an exasperated glance at Draco's shivering frame, he growled out a warming charm and grabbed his arm. In seconds they were again at the gates of Hogwarts.

But rather than open the gates, Snape turned to Draco.

"You must not lie to him, he can tell. You were about to invent an answer," he said, and it wasn't really a question, but Draco nodded in affirmation anyway, his throat was still too sore to speak.

Snape continued, "Stupid boy. You cannot lie to the Dark Lord, he can read you too easily."

Draco felt the irrational desire to defend himself from the accusation that he was easily readable. He prided himself on being able to restrain his expressions, the notion that he would be unable to was preposterous. Snape merely gave him a disgusted look, and Draco realized he was too tired to object.

Snape opened the gates and the entered the school grounds. Presently, he began to speak again, in a tone that suggested he was unsure exactly how to proceed,

"Your… mission… Draco… is vital to the Revolution. I'm am bound by a vow to help you."

"I don't need your help," Draco answered coolly, speeding up his steps slightly.

"He will summon you again," Snape said, and Draco turned to glare at him, but there was more anxiety behind the expression than anything else. "He will summon you with the rest of us, and next time he won't be so lenient."

Draco wanted to interject that having your throat slit from the inside, again, is not exactly lenient, but his mind drifted back to that fierce look in Snape's eyes and the distant echo of his own screams and he knew that, in fact, he had gotten off pretty lightly.

"Just because you are in school does not exempt you," Snape continued. "You will need to answer his summons like the rest of us, and do your duty to your Lord." Draco's mouth went dry. Somehow he'd expected everything to go back to normal when the summer was over. Well, except for the whole mission thing. "However, since you cannot apparate and are still under 17, you will only be able to go when I am able to leave the school. The Dark Lord has given his permission. Be aware," Snape added, looking directly at Draco as he opened the front doors of the castle, "that ignoring the summons as you will be obliged to do when I am unable to leave… will be excruciatingly painful. And there is little you can do about it."

Draco merely nodded. He felt like he was being smothered in the weight of this realization, and unconsciously rubbed his left wrist with the thumb of his right hand. He was a Death Eater now.

The reality of it seemed to shroud him in a fog for the next day or so. His throat was still sore despite the healing potion Snape had given him when they came back. He'd walked into the Slytherin common room to find it full of students celebrating the end of the first week back, furiously whispering and gossiping and playing politics, and Draco had felt so… weary. And strangely isolated in a room full of other people. He felt it now, sitting at the breakfast table the next morning, scowling at the others. All their petty intrigues, all their insignificant worries, about exam marks and Quidditch and… Draco felt _alone_. He'd expected to feel grown-up. He did feel grown-up. He'd felt that way when Borgin had cowered at the sight of his Dark Mark, the thrill of it still tingled in his fingers when he remembered it. But now, he felt a keen sense of loss. It had not occurred to him that he was giving up anything, until now.

He pushed the thought from his mind and tried to force down some breakfast, but his throat was too sore and he opted for warm milk and a nap instead.

After dinner, Snape cornered him near on the way to the Slytherin common room.

"You will report to my office at my convenience for private instruction this week. He will probably test you next time."

"Test?" Draco started, and Snape made an impatient growl and said, "the Imperious," as though this was completely obvious. _Oh_.

And somehow, the isolation he had been feeling melted away and was replaced by a growing anticipation. He remembered the Pettigrew's helplessness, the pleading for it to stop, the glint of pleasure in those red eyes, and he felt himself grinning. Maybe it would all be worth the price, if he could have that kind of power.


	12. Persuasion

_TrinityLost: _*blush* why thank you, I'm glad you like my Draco, I'm trying to keep him as real as I imagine him.

So people – pretty please leave me a note, let me know what you think (because I know you are following this, I can see the stats)

**Chapter 12: Persuasion**

They started out with pygmy-puffs.

Snape had confiscated every one of the offensive pink puff-balls that had the misfortune of being discovered in the Slytherin common room, at the breakfast table, or came within even a few feet of his new Defense classroom. It was only the second week and he had amassed no fewer than twenty-seven.

Draco couldn't help smirking at the image of those pink candy-floss creatures in the same room as Snape's gruesome images of people dying of an impressive variety of dark curses. The new décor in the Defense classroom this year seemed to elicit mostly cynicism from his fellow classmates and he knew, at one point, he'd have reacted the same way. But he knew better now, and he was grateful they were meeting in the dungeons instead. He rubbed left wrist absentmindedly, and gazed at the pygmys, trying to focus on the task at hand.

They seemed even more out-of-place here in the dungeon, but what amused Draco the most was the fact that Snape, apparently in a terrible miscalculation on his part, was now the proud owner of twenty-seven offensively pink, squeaking pygmy-puffs. The mere sight of them seemed to be so revolting to the man that he could barely bring himself to glance at the cage when he informed Draco of his task for the evening.

You wouldn't think, really, that it would require much in the way of mental effort to _imperius_ a pygmy-puff, but you'd be wrong.

"You are not concentrating, Mr. Malfoy," Snape drawled. Draco bristled at the fact that he was always, inevitably, 'Mr. Malfoy' when Snape was teaching him, even now.

"I _am,_" Draco insisted.

"That is unfortunate, because laziness would certainly be a preferable excuse to sheer incompetence."

"I'm trying, but it won't obey." Draco was pointing his wand and ordering the pink puffball on the desk in front of him spin. Just _spin _for gods' sake.

"It is not a house-elf," Snape said simply.

Extremely irritated at this point, Draco snapped back, "what's that supposed to mean?"

Snape stood, and walked toward him slowly, and in a softer voice said, "Merely, Mr. Malfoy, that you cannot begin by simply commanding it." He took another step closer, "you must persuade it, coax it, lull it into obedience." Snape was staring at him intensely and Draco felt his face growing warm. He did not even notice to flick of Snape's wand under his robes.

Then suddenly, Draco found himself standing, arms to his sides, looking up at Snape and unable… no unwilling… to turn away. And then he felt a gentle tug pulling him closer, and he took a step forward, because he found he wanted to. He couldn't really focus his eyes on anything else in the room, but that seemed ok right now. He felt another, stronger tug and took another step closer to his Professor, which at that moment seemed like an ok thing to do, if only to make that nagging, itching, tug go away. And then, he felt a stronger impulse and he shrugged off his school robes and stood in front his Professor in just trousers and his shirt sleeves. His heart was pounding, and he felt his face flushing, as he gazed up into Snape dark eyes, unable… no, unwilling… to look away.

Draco felt a sudden draft of wind, and almost at the same instant he realized how very, very close he was to his Professor and that, maybe, he didn't want to be, but he couldn't tell. His vague unease turned to something more like fear when he realized that he was unwilling… no _unable_… to step back, and when he tried to reach out his hand, it was merely to place it on the buttons of the man's black robes. Draco heard Snape's breath hitch, and felt his own heartbeat in his throat. He gazed up into Snape's eyes and saw something glinting there that he had never seen before.

Snape seemed to be holding his breath, his dark black eyes burning into Draco, but he remained perfectly still, until a faint glimmer of something like… pain?... appeared in his face.

Suddenly, Snape stepped back and exhaled, and Draco felt himself released from the magical bind that had held his will.

Snape seemed somewhat flustered, but recovered quickly enough, returning to his desk to mark papers without another look at Draco, who was still standing where he had been held, confused and feeling oddly warm despite the chill.

After a few moments, Snape sighed exasperatedly and said, "try it again, Mr. Malfoy." And Draco turned back to the puffball.

* * *

After the boy left, Severus collapsed into his armchair, groaning as he pressed the heel of his hand into the erection that had plagued him for the last hour, ever since his foolhardy display. He summoned himself a bottle of scotch and a glass and sat staring at his fireplace. The base potion for the wolfs-bane was brewing in his private lab next door and he could just barely smell it from where he was sitting. Tomorrow he'd finish it, and see the wolf, and probably irritate him enough to punch him and storm off again like last month.

He finished his drink in another gulp, and aching pleasantly under the haze of alcohol and arousal, and shuffled off to bed.

* * *

Once he figured out the trick, Draco found the _imperius_ absolutely addictive. There was no other word for it. He began visiting the owlery and making the owls battle each other. Once, in a particularly absurd mood, he made two of them waltz around in the high ceiling.

Snape had procured for him a number of different animals but had refused outright to let him perform the curse on a student. That did not, however, stop Draco from trying.

He'd made a few attempts in class but found that he was unable to break through his own distraction to really manage it, and that eye-contact seemed to help establish the initial connection.

Which is why he was now sitting at dinner staring at the Gryffindor table, willing one of them to look up. Ah! Yes! Potter! Draco held his gaze as he tucked his wand out from inside of his sleeve and began to murmur the incantation…

But just then, he felt a jolt of searing pain shooting up his arm from his finger-tips to his shoulder blade and he dropped his wand, gripping his arm without a second thought. He caught the looks of several of the Slytherins sitting near him and quickly released his arm, murmuring something about a muscle spasm from Quidditch, and turned his eyes to seek out Snape at the head table. Snape's eyes were trained on Draco, yet his face betrayed no emotion. Still, Draco could see his left arm lying stiffly beside his bowl, gripping a wayward spoon. Then he nodded, ever so slightly, and Draco understood. A summons. A real one. They would have to go. Tonight.

Draco found his way to Snape's office after failing to finish any of his meal, hold a single conversation, or really even focus his eyes. The first jolt had been replaced by a vague throbbing that seemed to grow faster and more painful the longer they waited. Eager to leave, eager to arrive in the blessed darkness of the cold, dark house and feel the pain dissipate, Draco rushed down to the Snape's office and knocked desperately before throwing open the door.

Snape was standing over a cauldron in the back of the room. He turned to Draco frowning and handed him a potion and then seemed to wave him away. _What?_ Draco remained in the doorway, frowning, but unable to articulate anything through the now screaming pain in his arm.

Snape turned around and glared at him irritably.

"We are not going," he snapped.

"But-"

"It hurts. Yes. Drink the potion. Go to bed."

Draco groaned and felt he might burst into tears if he was not relieved soon, but he gulped the potion down obediently. It was mildly better, he found. He was able to formulate a whole thought, which amounted to, _please, please can we go now because I really really need the pain to stop_.

But Snape merely glanced at him irritably, and drank his own helping of the potion. Then he gruffly handed Draco vial of it to take with him, and sent him out of the door.

The pain did not stop.

It came in waves, crashing over him when he was just beginning to think it had finally subsided.

All night he lay awake, tossing and turning. He had fallen into bed in his clothes, unwashed. He could barely manage the silencing spell on his curtains. Every thought, every desire, every need was subverted by the _pull_ toward relief. Toward his Lord. The call was powerful. Almost unbearable.

The next day Draco suffered through breakfast is silence, unable to eat. He had taken the rest of Snape's potion, which worked long enough to enable him to struggle into new clothes, which had taken nearly thirty minutes. Each separate thought, each desire, first for socks, then pants, then trousers, then to button his trousers, then to find a bloody shirt… each thought required a force of will he could barely find, and he fought the desire to just fall down and give up, or desperately attempt to apparate away by himself.

By the time he had struggled to the great hall and slumped into his seat, he could not bring himself to want to eat anything.

They had Defense first thing that morning and after one look at Draco, Snape dismissed him for the rest of the day, for which Draco could only just manage to muster the will to be grateful.

The next day was no better. The mere thought of clothing was overwhelming. The idea of food was abhorrent.

It wasn't until the following night that Snape sent a worried-looking house-elf to Draco's dorm-room with another vial of potion and a note:

_Mr. Malfoy,_

_Report to my office immediately._

_SS_

Draco gulped the potion blindly and willed himself into clothing and out through the common room into the corridor. To his immense relief, Snape was already standing outside of the door to the Slytherin dorms, waiting for him. He grasped Draco's elbow and led him briskly up the stairs, out through the front doors, across the grounds, and through the gates. Draco prepared to stop and apparate but Snape kept on walking. When Draco whimpered he turned a disgusted look at him and explained,

"Too many aurors," and kept walking. They walked all the way into Hogsmeade and didn't stop until they reached an alley beside The Three Broomsticks.

Almost the moment that the squeezing crush of apparition released him, he felt his arm and his whole body blissfully relieved. He exhaled deeply, and gazed as the serpentine companion on his arm, now wriggling contentedly. He could feel his mind freed from the nagging, pulsing, enveloping desire to obey, and nearly swayed in the warmth of his reward.

Beside him, Snape breathed deeply, his brow relaxed, his face smooth, and Draco realized he must also have been longing to come back, longing to return, to be freed from the aching summons.

Draco took another deep breath, feeling invigorated with every passing moment. He pointed his wand to the tip of his chin and whispered _aspecto oscuro_ and white wisps of smoke rose up to form a porcelain mask over his face. He followed Snape into the room to find the others milling about while the Dark Lord spoke in quiet tones with someone over by the fire. Draco stayed in the door-way while Snape went and reported their arrival. Within minutes, the crowd had formed a circle with the Dark Lord's chair at the head. When silence had fallen, Draco heard,

"Young Malfoy, show us what you have learned," and Draco swallowed, hard.


	13. Imperio

**Warning:** this particular chapter includes violence against animals. Basically what happens when you teach a teenager the _imperius_ and then set him loose with a group of sadistic Death Eaters to impress.

**Chapter 13: Imperio**

Draco took a deep breath and stepped forward into the circle and swept off his mask. In front of him, a Muggle man in his forties knelt, his wrists and ankles bound together my magical cords. His dog was whimpering under a silencing spell in a crate at the back of the room.

Draco stilled his thoughts, focusing on the man in front of him, focusing on what he wanted him to do. He had been immensely successful with animals and had managed with a few younger students this would be a challenge.

Then he made eye-contact with the man, raised his wand and said, "_imperio._" The man's eyes suddenly glazed over and he no longer struggled against his restraints. Draco felt himself penetrating the man's will, gently coaxing him into compliance. He experimented, testing the strength of the spell as Snape had taught him, turning the man left, and right, raising his arms and feet alternately, as much as his restraints permitted him. A thrilling tingle ran down his spine as he watched the man lifting his arms against the restraints.

"Cut him loose," he ordered to the men in the circle nearest him, and someone waved a wand to release the restraints.

He continued to experiment, testing the limits of the man's will. He made the man crawled on all fours like an animal. A few people in the circle chuckled mildly. Draco sent him sniffing around on the ground, and in a fit of inspiration, had him attempt to scratch himself with his own foot like a dog. Several people actually laughed at this. Draco sent him around the circle, sniffing for attention and being swatted, slapped, and kicked away over and over again. The man-dog was passed from person to person, everyone got a chance to hit him, or hex him. Appreciative whoops and jeers rose from the crowd. Draco watched, a grin spreading across his face, as his victim was abused and humiliated. He felt his fingers tingling, and his pupils dilating, as he bent the man's will to do his bidding. He was completely in Draco's control.

Draco stole a look at the red eyes of his Lord to find him wearing an expression of vague satisfaction, but also something more dangerous. Draco became aware that he was running the risk of upstaging his Lord, and quickly brought the man to heel, still comically panting. He waited for the disappointed grumbling around him to die out. Then he stepped slowly toward the Dark Lord's chair, sinking to his knees before him, dropping his head in a bow. Draco peered up through his thick eyelashes and asked quietly,

"My Lord, what shall I make him do for you?"

His tone was one of absolute submission. He was trying to indicate that all of this had been a mere warm-up, that it was not his wishes, or cheap pandering to a crowd of hostile rivals, but the Dark Lord's wishes alone that mattered to him.

Those red eyes looked at him appraisingly he knew he had done exactly what the Dark Lord had wanted by submitting.

"Kill the dog," he answered simply.

For a horrible second, Draco misunderstood. Somehow, that made the actual command somewhat more bearable.

Draco nodded, "yes, my Lord," and stood. Behind him, the man stood as well.

"Release it," Draco called, and someone opened the cage in the corner and the dog came running out, snarling and spitting at the crowd surrounding his master. A few well-placed kicks and a hex or two, and she was soon cowering by his master's side, whining and growling. Draco listened, but didn't watch the animal. Somehow, he couldn't.

Draco willed the man to reach down and stroke the dog, patting her reassuringly, and the dog wagged its tail. Draco left him standing there, turning his back to him in a clear demonstration of the strength of his spell, and turned to the men behind him.

On their unmasked faces he could see renewed interest.

In an authoritative tone he rather daringly summoned the first knife he saw, which happened to be glinting from Yaxley's belt. Yaxley, a massive, intimidating man with broad shoulders and a cruel scar across his face, gave a gruff bark of protest but Draco met his gaze, neatly plucking the soaring blade out of the air without looking away. He stared him down coldly, daring the wizard to contradict him in fulfilling the Dark Lord's orders, and to his surprise (and extreme pleasure) the giant man acquiesced grudgingly. Draco stole a glance at the Dark Lord as he turned and found him watching intently.

Draco made the man come toward him and in a fit of desire inspired in no small part by the success of his momentary emasculation of Yaxley, made the man kneel down before him (a supremely risky move, he realised too late, but there was still time to correct it). Draco slapped him across the face and forbade him to react. The man remained kneeling and Draco held out the knife, hilt first, and the man took it, standing up so that the sharpened tip of the blade was pointing directly at Draco's chest, just a few inches away. The spell tingled between them, and he could feel the man's resistance to his will, like a force vibrating the air between them, but he stood firm. Draco could feel a room full of eyes on him, him alone, and his display of power, knowing they were all thinking the same thing: if the man succeeded in throwing off his curse, he could kill Draco in an instant.

Draco allowed the tension to build, staring into the man's eyes, expending every ounce of his will to contain the man's desires and bend him into obedience. Then he made the man drop back down to his knees, and sigh of mixed relief and disappointment spread across the room.

Draco willed the man to kneel beside his dog, holding the knife behind his back, and stroke the dog lovingly. The dog, still growling, slowly began to relax as her owner caressed her and scratched her, until she was lying on her back, belly exposed, whining to be tickled. Draco could see in the man's eyes his fierce desire to resist his commands and he realized he would need to act soon before his strength wore out. It had taken more out of him than he realized, to keep the man in line when rebellion was so close.

The man reached down to stroke the dog with one hand, and the other came up quickly and effortlessly, and cut a gash down her abdomen. Immediately, blood and entrails spilled from her body as she yelped and gurgled. Draco made him watch, though he himself did not.

He could not.

No, he chose not to.

He chose to focus on his Lord, chose to breathe and hold down the nausea instead of facing this thing he had done. Because he hadn't done it, the man had done it.

Draco whispered an _impedimenta_ and released the man from his control, and turned away to face the Dark Lord's chair and kneel before him again, head bowed.

Immediately the man began to howl and wail, tears running down his cheeks. He cursed Draco, cursed the Dark Lord, cursed the room, all the while pleading with them to help him, to help her, to save her. The dog expired shortly after his pleas began.

A casual flick of the Dark Lord's wand, and the man expired, also.

The bodies were floated to the other side of the room, Nagini slithering behind. Draco was still kneeling, suddenly feeling shaky and weak, surrounded by a silent circle, when the Dark Lord rose to his feet and approached him.

Draco prepared himself to be _imperiused_ in turn and shown how it ought to be done. But the tall shape stopped to tower above him and when Draco looked up he was surprised to see a white hand extended toward him.

Without thinking, Draco took it and kissed the cold white knuckles, then pressed them to his forehead in an ancient gesture of filial obeisance. He flinched slightly when a second white hand reached down and tugged on his chin, lifting him to his feet. The room was absolutely silent as a hand came up and gently, almost tenderly, brushed a lock of golden hair out of his eyes. Red eyes pierced his grey ones and Draco held his breath.

"Well done, Draco Malfoy," the cold, high voice said.

"Thank you, my Lord," he answered in a reverent whisper.

He bowed again, breaking contact with those fiery red eyes, feeling himself flush under the intensity of that gaze, and withdrew to stand in the outer circle. The Dark Lord then called the next follower to report, or demonstrate, or be reprimanded. Draco stood there, dazed by the rush of mixed emotions flooding him.

When he looked up, he was amused to find expressions of envy, fear, and outright hatred on the faces of his fellow Death Eaters, and Draco answered them defiantly with a bold lift of his chin.

* * *

The moment they arrived in the dark ally-way in Hogsmeade, Snape turned to Draco, barely contained rage now spilling over at him.

"What were thinking? Handing him that knife. You could've –" Snape began, but his apparent fury seemed to have robbed him of words. He growled and turned to walk down the street.

"I had it under control," Draco answered dismissively. "And the Dark Lord liked it," he added, gauging Snape's reaction. Draco hadn't seen his face after the Dark Lord's gesture of favouritism but he suspected it was the source of Snape current agitation. And just for the fun of it, he wanted to rub it in.

Snape whirled around, his black robes billowing, and he towered to his full height and peering down at Draco, his black eyes piercing through him.

"Stupid boy," he began, his voice low and menacing. "You have no idea. You may be a shiny new toy today, but you will never–"

"You're just jealous, because you're not so shiny and –"

Suddenly the words died in his mouth as Draco felt the ground beneath him swaying. The last thing he saw were a pair of alarmed black pools gazing down at him.


	14. Irked

Yay! Angry/horny boys are back! Sorry it's been such a long detour, but Draco's had a lot going on, you know.

**Chapter 14: Irked**

The first thing Draco heard when he came to was, "stupid boy." He smiled vaguely at the endearment, and opened his eyes, which he immediately regretted because the light seemed to make the headache worse.

He blinked and opened his eyes to find himself in warm place, on a wooden chair, enveloped by the smell of honey and butter-beer.

Snape was sitting close beside him, trying to look disdainful as he held a large mug of hot chocolate to Draco's lips. Despite the headache Draco willed himself to drink down some of the warm, sweet liquid, savouring the way it slid down his throat and spread warmth throughout his body. Ah, much better.

"When did you last eat?" Snape asked him as he placed the mug into Draco's hands.

"The other day, when –" Draco looking pointedly at his left arm.

"Stupid boy," Snape repeated, sitting back in his chair and nursing a butterbeer. Draco looked around. The Three Broomsticks.

"What happened?" Draco asked.

"You collapsed from malnourishment and overexertion."

"How long?"

"A few minutes," Snape said dismissively, and Draco realized that Snape must have carried, or at the very least levitated him in here, and he looked up gratefully. Then he remembered what they had been fighting about, and for some reason, before he could think better of it, Draco blurted out,

"I'm sorry."

Snape looked at him with an inscrutable expression, then turned away to sip his drink again, but did not respond.

The bar was deserted and most of the chairs were already up on the tables. After a few moments of silence, Snape apparently judged Draco fit to go, and stood. Draco followed him, still somewhat shaky, and moved to the door. But Snape didn't come. He seemed to be listening, and then he turned to Draco and whispered in explanation,

"Rosmerta. She'll have to be obliviated."

Draco understood, and thought to step back as the voluptuous hussy made her cheerful way back into to the bar from the kitchens with another round of drinks, when an idea seized him that he just couldn't shake. It might work. And right now might be his only chance.

Draco stood beside Snape, tucking his wand into the folds of his robes. When she emerged, Snape murmured the spell and removed the memory of their visit. He did not notice Draco murmuring beside him, nor did he recognize her glassy-eyed expression as anything other than his own _obliviate._

Draco wasn't sure that his _imperius _curse on Rosmerta had even worked. He had doubted the efficacy of the spell that night because he'd been too tired to really test it out and he was afraid Snape might notice. Moreover, she was not a Muggle, and might recognize the feeling of it, and be more likely to throw it off, especially since he was at such a distance. He'd spent most of Sunday considering the effort a failure.

But once he returned to classes on Monday the drain was unmistakable. It was slight, not enough even to enter his conscious mind – not at all like having complete control over the body of that Muggle. Rosmerta, for all he knew, was going about her life as usual. And yet he could feel a sort of… well, like a _leak_ of his tolerance. It was very faint, to be sure. He didn't feel tired, or weakened, really. Truly, the knowledge that he held her in his power from so far away was exhilarating. Maybe it wasn't really even a leak, but a sort of overload. Like he was perceiving more than usual.

It left him irritated. Every little thing irked him. The prickle of the curse was just enough to make him lose his composure just that much earlier. He snapped at people right and left. He stormed out of rooms.

Fortunately, as a Slytherin, this kind of behaviour was read as confidence and his housemates seemed to interpret, rightly, that he had reason to be confident, and responded accordingly. Somehow, their wary avoidance only irritated him more.

By the end of the third day, he was fuming with pent up rage. He lay in bed and stared at his clock. Five minutes to curfew. Without even thinking about it, Draco leapt out of bed.

He climbed the back stairwell without thinking, without purpose. He reached the fifth floor, and as though drawn, he turned into the dark hallway.

Immediately he regretted it.

Suddenly Draco found himself face to face with Harry bloody Potter. Again.

"Fuck off, Potter," he spat.

"No, I don't think I will, Malfoy."

Draco sneered, and moved to pull out his wand, but Potter, clearly less distracted that he, moved on him with a force and efficiency that took Draco completely by surprise.

Within seconds Potter had him up against the wall, arms by the side of his head.

Draco tried to kick out and trip him, but Potter quickly stepped into the space between them and pinned him to the wall by pressing his full weight against him and Draco stilled in spite of himself.

Both of them were breathing deeply.

They were entirely too close and Draco felt sure he could feel Potter's heartbeat against his chest, or maybe that was his own heart beat.

Draco began to wriggle in the hold again, and that's when he felt it. That unmistakable hard shaft right next to his own erection, his own aching erection that he hadn't even noticed until right now, as it throbbed, screaming to be obeyed.

For some reason he found himself pressing his hips against Potter's again, seeking out that contact. Potter groaned audibly. The sound went straight to Draco's groin, and he closed his eyes as he felt a sort of nauseas thrill tingling through him, supplanting the fear and the rage.

He braved a look at Potter's face, and saw shocked expression spreading across it, followed by a bright blush. Their noses were almost touching. Potters lips were parted and his breathing ragged as he jerked his hips forward to meet Draco's, and they both gasped.

As though driven against his will, Potter thrust again, this time more forcefully, and Draco could feel the heat and desperation in Potter's cock as it pressed through all those layers fabric toward his own. Draco closed his eyes again, because the thick, desperate need was threatening to drown him and he could barely breath because of the pressure of that warm body pressed against him and he heard himself stifle a quiet groan through his teeth.

Suddenly Potter shoved off of the wall, a look of _disgust_ on his face, as he turned and fled down the corridor.

Draco slumped against the wall, still breathless and shaky.

_What was that?_

He closed his eyes and tried to banish the image of Potter's face twisted in disgust, but all he could find to replace it with was the echo of _that word_ in his ears, and he felt all the anger flooding back into him, drowning him. He dug his fingers into the palms of his hands until they cramped and bled and thought about all the ways he _hated_ Harry fucking Potter.


	15. Katie Bell

**Chapter 15: Katie Bell**

The following weekend was the first Hogsmeade Weekend, and Draco started planning his test run. He wasn't exactly sure that he'd be successful, but he thought it might be a good dry run, and more importantly, it represented a legitimate effort on his part, utilizing his newly acquired skills, which he could to the Dark Lord as proof of his commitment to the mission when next he was summoned.

On Monday Draco wrote to Borgin and reminded him of his duties (although Draco hadn't personally invested so much as a second thought into _that_ project yet, but soon enough, soon enough). Meanwhile, he needed that necklace. It was a small miracle that Borgin was willing to take the risk, and Draco attributed that largely to his well placed post-script vaguely mentioning Greyback. Draco wasn't sure how much longer he could hang the threat of a werewolf he'd never personally met and was actually terrified of over Borgin's head, but for the time being it seemed to work.

Frankly, he still wasn't convinced he'd be able to get Rosmerta to do his bidding from so far away, much less do something as complicated as receiving, hiding, and passing the necklace, to someone _and_ imperiusing them to carry it to Hogwarts while already imperiused. It seemed impossible. But at least he knew that by the end of the day, either the package would be caught at the gates or it would be found at the Three Broomsticks. Either way, he'd have tested the system and found whatever gaps he needed to breach.

Which is why Draco was caught rather off his guard when an enraged Potter came storming down the corridor.

"I know it was you!" Potter called at him, wand in hand.

"What are talking about, Potter?" Draco answered calmly, pulling out his own wand.

"Katie Bell. You almost fucking killed her, Malfoy. I know it was you!" Draco flicked a hex at Harry, who repelled it into a wall and returned a hex of his own, but Draco repelled it back at Potter, who tripped. Draco laughed, cruelly.

"Why, Malfoy?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, Potter," Draco answered, honestly, though he was beginning to feel a sinking dread in the pit of his stomach.

"The fuck you don't!" spat Potter, back on his feet now. "_Expelliarmus_!" he shouted and Draco's wand flew into Potter's hand. Draco was too surprised to react in time and before he knew it, Potter had run up and shoved him, hard, against the wall.

They stayed there, pressed together, staring at each other for several long seconds. Green eyes gazed into his with malice and mistrust and something else… like Potter was searching his eyes for something. Draco felt Potter's hold softening inexplicably, and he waited until he could find a way out.

Finally, catching Potter off guard, Draco managed to raise himself up just enough to gain the leverage he needed to shove Potter off of him onto the floor. Potter landed roughly on his back, and the wands fell to the floor. Draco snatched his up and bolted without looking back.

He needed to get the hell out of here. _How could it have gone wrong? Was Potter lying? No, probably not. What the fuck happened? Shit. Fucking shit. _He needed to know what was going on but he dreaded going to Snape. Snape, whom he had lied to, kept this from. _Shit_.

He turned the corner into the dungeon hallway, hoping to reach the Slytherin common room without running into anyone when he heard Snape dangerously low voice:

"Mr. Malfoy, follow me to my office. Now."

Draco froze and turned around to see a tall, angry Snape peering down at him, holding in his hand an inconspicuous little brown paper package.

Draco held his breath and turned to follow Snape into his lair.

Two hours later, Snape still had not finished. After threatening him with _veritaserum_ (an empty threat, but no less terrifying) and _legimency_ (an absolutely real threat), Draco had confessed to most of it.

And now, two hours later, he was getting irritated about the whole thing himself. How was he supposed to know that the Bell girl would open the package? Who would do that? Open a package for someone else?

"And if Dumbledore had opened it?" Snape asked slowly, his voice perfectly even.

Draco frowned at him for a moment and then answered, "then he'd be dead, and the mission would be over," he said simply.

Snape's face was inscrutable. Then he turned away.

"It would never have worked. This was reckless, poorly conceived, and irresponsible. You nearly _killed_ a girl today."

"How was I supposed to know sh-"

"You could not have known, that's why you should have spoken to me!" Snape roared, and Draco read something like betrayal in his anger that sent a sharp pang of guilt to his gut.

Which is about when Draco decided he'd had enough of this, and stormed out of Snape's office without another word.

Potter found him again a few nights later. He managed to avoid the boy for several days, but eventually, almost inevitably, Draco had wandered up to the fifth floor hallway, and of course, Potter was there.

But this time he was prepared and wasted no time, flicking his wand inside his robes and sending Harry flying against the far wall. He came up from behind him and grabbed his left arm, twisting it all the way around and until he had him pinned against the wall, cheek against cold stone.

Potter had bent his other arm and was trying to press his palm against the wall the push himself off and turn around, but Draco pressed him entire weight against him and had him trapped. His breathing was fast and thick, and he twisted Potter's arm a little more deeply, delighting in the wince that spread across his face (or the half of it that wasn't smashed against the wall). Potter trying to trip him with one of his legs but Draco kicked his feet apart and stepped closer. Potter sucked in a sudden, shocked breath and Draco was instantly aware that he was completely hard. Again. He groaned, unable to contain the impulse to thrust just barely into the groove he found, and he heard Potter make a pathetic sound, like a plea. The exhilaration of having Harry fucking Potter whimpering against a wall was too much for Draco. He couldn't resist.

Draco pressed closer, and Potter answered him, pressing his arse against Draco's arousal. Draco thrust forward harder, and again, and Potter responded to him, letting out a little whimpering breath, and Draco groaned and thrust, and pressed himself as close to Potter as he could, his lips brushing lightly against Potter's ear. He could see Potter's eyelashes flutter, could see him biting his bottom lip with a shiny, white tooth. His lips were red, and moist, and he was taking hot, shallow breaths. Draco stared, transfixed, his grip loosening on Potter's arms, the pressure easing until Potter was able to turn himself around to face Draco, bewildered green eyes peering at him through messy bangs.

Draco felt a cruel smirk spread across his lips at the sight and abruptly brought his leg up to knee Potter squarely in the balls.

Potter cried out in pain, falling to the ground at Draco's feet, groaning in pain, his eyes watering.

"Who's the faggot, Potter?" Draco drawled at him, then he turned to walk away.


	16. Amoebus Proteanus

**Chapter 16: Amoebus Proteanus**

Draco was starting to suspect that something was seriously wrong with him, and it wasn't just the drain of the _imperius_ on Rosmerta. No, something was seriously wrong with Draco. And apparently with Potter, too.

True, at 16 Draco probably tossed off at least once a day, no more or less than most of the other boys, judging by the sounds that escaped their inadequate silencing charms. Maybe it was just a coincidence that he tossed off almost every time he fought with Potter. Aggression takes many forms, and sexual aggression is more about violence and domination than sexuality anyway, Draco understood that. But… well this time, at least, had been different.

Draco had left Potter, humiliated and probably in serious pain, crumpled on the floor last night and he had felt triumphant. But then he had stormed down to the dungeon and without even thinking, had slipped into a hot shower and reached down to grasp his throbbing, aching length. He had closed his eyes, blurry images of smooth skin and hard muscle and messy brown hair whirring through his mind, as he stroked himself slowly, building the pressure, whining and moaning as he teased himself until he was _so close_. And he heard himself whisper hoarsely "fucking _Potter_," as he pumped out ropes of his come through the circle of his fist.

Even before the sweat and semen had washed away, Draco thought to himself, _wait… what?_ Something about this was seriously not right.

And anyway, although the fighting was helping Draco's image, he couldn't risk actually getting injured by Potter, or he would risk a serious overthrow on the part of Blaise and Nott. He thought he could handle Blaise through Pansy pretty effectively, but Nott was another story. Unfortunately, Draco realized too late that once he began physically fighting Potter, he forfeited the excuse not to do so and to defer to Vincent and Greg. To stop fighting and let them take over would be tantamount to a confession of defeat. So he would have to carry on unless… well frankly he couldn't imagine any way to avoid it unless Potter simply stopped provoking him.

Meanwhile Snape was apparently still furious with him. Of course, fury in Snape looks like impenetrable indifference and cold professionalism. Draco was once again "Mr. Malfoy," under all circumstances. He couldn't even get a sneer out of the man, and it was aggravating beyond belief.

The Dark Lord had not summoned Draco again since his last demonstration of fealty, though he suspected that Snape was still going. Somehow, though he should have been relieved, Draco felt left out.

Moreover, Draco was now stuck without a potions lab. He'd sort of been planning to use Snape's lab to brew the polyjuice potion, which really needed starting if he was going to use it. He hadn't really decided exactly how he was going to use it, but it would take him two months to brew it so he might as well start now, and he'd figure the rest out later.

Much to Draco's surprise, Potter had miraculously stopped provoking him. He'd even stopped reacting with more than words to Draco's provocation, which only moderately irritated Draco since he really stood to benefit from this new, subdued Potter. Despite the lack of contact, though, the tension between them remained palpable.

With everything that was going on, Draco had almost forgotten about Professor's Sprout's detention. In fact, he was sort of hoping she had forgotten; it had been weeks since the brawl in her class. Apparently, though she had not forgotten, because after class one day she asked them both to stay after and explained to them what their detention would entail.

Which is why Draco now found himself up outrageously early on a friday morning doing Professor Sprout's idea of detention: collecting piping-pods from some carnivorous breed of night-shade just before dawn on the day before the full moon.

Draco could barely muster enough energy to feel even the remotest animosity toward Potter as he stumbled, bleary-eyed, down the stairs toward the front door. Potter, who was probably even less of a morning person than Draco, was looked cold and miserable. Their eyes met in the hall in front of the door, but both boys' faces were completely expressionless. Apparently Potter was thinking the same thing as Draco: no one is watching, why waste the energy? They stomped down across the dark grounds to the greenhouses together, though a rather further apart than most people might have chosen to walk, as though they were only coincidentally walking in the same direction at the same time.

Sprout had them extracting the tiny, whistling seedpods into little leather satchels to be used in potions class. Unsurprisingly, she was chipper and bubbly even at this ungodly hour, and chatted away about all the various uses of piping-pods in healing potions, bustling about the greenhouse and giggling at her own terrible puns.

Potter rolled his eyes and muttered, "fucking Hufflepuffs," and Draco chuckled in spite of himself. Potter caught his eye with a wary look that instantly turned to a tentative grin. Draco looked away quickly.

The rest of their detention passed in silence, and they trooped back to the castle without saying a word. As they parted ways to go to their respective houses, their eyes met, briefly, but neither could read anything in the other's expression.

* * *

It seemed they had struck a sort of truce, because the next two weeks passed uneventfully. Draco still sneered and Potter still scowled but they didn't erupt into any more fights.

Snape, on the other hand, seemed content to ignore Draco completely into the foreseeable future. There he was, droning on about mind-control and spells that enslave others, the Gryffindors shuddering and the Slytherins salivating. Snape steadfastly refused to make eye-contact with Draco, but Draco had figured out that Snape could not refuse to call on him or it would raise suspicion, and so the only interaction they ever had these days was during Defense.

"Yes, Mr. Malfoy?" Snape called on his without looking up.

"Could you tell us, professor, just how difficult it is to master the _imperius_? I mean, could a student manage it?"

And of course, right then, as Snape's cruel black eyes met Draco's challenge, a searing pain shot through Draco's arm and he saw his grimace mirrored in Snape's face for just an instant, then both of them looked away.

Snape scowled, turned away, and assigned a twenty-two inch essay on the _imperius _curse before dismissing class as the bell began to ring.

Draco hung back, gathering his books. The original pang had lessened and he knew that it would be manageable for a while before the pain began to grow again and become unbearable. Last time they had ignored the summons, he had gotten so far behind in school, he really didn't think he could afford to miss class again and he really did not want to relive the agony of waiting.

He stepped up to Snape's desk, seriously regretting his earlier provocation because he knew Snape would now be even less disposed to help him but he had no one else to turn to. Snape had his back turned, and was ignoring him.

"Professor," he began.

"Is there something you wanted, Mr. Malfoy?" Snape asked, his voice cold.

"Are we…" but Snape merely stared at him. "Are we going to go?"

"Unlike you, Mr. Malfoy, some of us have adult responsibilities and are not free to apparate around the country on a whim."

"It's not a whim, it's a bloody summons." Draco ground out.

"Be that as it may, you will have to be patient."

It was worse than last time. By dinner, Draco had lost his appetite. When he did not appear for class in the morning, a house-elf popped into the room with a flask and a note:

_Mr. Malfoy,_

_Students enrolled at Hogwarts are expected to attend class._

_SS_

Draco gulped the potion, threw on his clothes, and stormed his way directly to Snape's office. And of course he wasn't there, because he was teaching Draco's defense class. Draco tried to break the wards but he couldn't focus enough. He slumped against the wall and waited until class was over.

"Mr. Malfoy." Snape said simply, and Draco opened his eyes. He had been fantasising about going to the Dark Lord. He found that if he told himself that he would be able to go, that it would happen, that the pain seemed to dull slightly and he could think more clearly about how to make it happen.

"I can't concentrate with it like this. I can't _think_. I can't even _want_ to think. All I want is to _go_."

Snape seemed to reflect on this for a moment and then answered, "yes."

Draco was taken aback by that answer, but didn't really have the capacity to think about it at any length, and returned to the problem at hand.

"Please, professor." He didn't know what he was asking. They couldn't just walk off campus in the middle of the day, he knew that.

"Sit down," Snape ordered, indicating the small couch by the fireplace, "and drink this." Snape handed Draco a little vial of something dark and purple. He drank it without question, and slowly felt himself slipping into sleep.

When he awoke he found himself curled up on Snape's couch with his travelling cloak thrown over him like a blanket. Snape was on the other side of the room putting on his outer robes.

"What time is it?"

"Just after 8pm. Are you ready?"

Draco sat up dizzy and the pain in his arm returned, but the vivid hope of relief spurred him on and he rose, and nodded, following Snape out of the room and into the dark corridor.

When they arrived, someone was being tortured. The screams of a victim under _crucio_ are all pretty much the same. The pitch might vary, but male or female, wizard or muggle, it's the same sound of abject agony.

The sound echoed through the front hall as the flood of relief and clear thought washed over Draco. He breathed deeply, enjoying the blissful freedom of obedience, but found it marred by the rising dread in his gut at the sound of those screams.

He pointed the tip of his wand to his chin and conjured his mask, then followed Snape into the dark room.

Three hours and two victims later, they were dismissed.

It wasn't until the long walk back from Hogsmeade that Draco's brain, newly freed, began to process exactly what he had said earlier to Snape, that he made him willing to help. He hadn't complained about the pain… no he'd been talking about the problem of _will_. And then, out of the blue, he remembered.

"Professor, I have a question… about the Mark," he began.

Snape turned to him, face unreadable. "Yes?"

"I'm just so intrigued by the genius of it," Draco said, lightly. "I mean, it's functional and efficient, and that's why he uses it, but…" and he stopped walking, pulling up his sleave boldly to gaze at the snake with something like awe, "the _mechanism_ really is ingenious."

Snape didn't answer. Draco pulled down his sleave and kept on walking across the grounds.

Presently, he continued, "I mean… to place a living charm like an _protean _on an inanimate object, or even a liquid substance, that would be simple. Charm a coin, charm a clock, charm the paint in a painting. You could even charm the ink and put on a normal tattoo… but this…"

He paused again to gaze at his arm, covered by layers of warm cloaks but not less present... "to set an _amoebus_ _proteanus_ charm on a living host – on a group of living hosts - would require… a _sentient_ potion, would it not, sir? A single batch of sentient ink." It was a statement, not a question, and Snape did not contradict him.

"Tell me, sir," he began again, keeping his voice cool and casual, "were you still a student, or had you already finished at Hogwarts, when you brewed this?" he asked stopping to look directly at Snape.

Snape's eyes widened and his lips narrowed into pale lines, his nostril's flaring ever so slightly. It would have been easy to miss in the darkness, these subtle signs, but Draco had learned to read Snape much better in the last few months, and he recognized the flash of fear.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Snape drawled, and turned to keep walking. But then he seemed to think better of it, and continued, "In fact, y_ou_ don't know what you're talking about, as usual, Mr. Malfoy."

Then he turned and continued briskly back to the castle. Draco let him have the last word. He'd learned what he wanted to know. Not that the ink was Snape's or that the batch was one and the same, and had been, for nearly 20 years, or that the Mark was as Dark as he'd suspected – he'd suspected that since last summer. But now he was fairly sure that no one else knew – or at least not that Snape was aware – exactly who had designed the Mark, and how.


	17. Petrificus Totalus

_chibi baka-san: _thank you!

So, finally the hormones are taking over and they Just. Cant. Help. It.

**Chapter 17: Petrificus Totalus**

Draco honestly could not figure out how this had happened.

Well ok, that's not true, he had a pretty good idea exactly how this had happened: Blaise _would not shut up_ but the goddamn Slugclub.

Draco knew perfectly well that Blaise could not care less about it but now that the Mudblood was attending, he just couldn't pass up the opportunity to needle Draco about not being part of a group that even the mudblood could get into. Draco typically countered with a remark about the kind of company Blaise chooses to keep, to which Blaise usually responded with a jab about keeping company with convicts, followed by Draco saying something nasty about the many, many men who've kept Blaise's mother company. And Nott, bloody Nott, whose father was imprisoned beside Draco's, seems to have marked him as a sinking ship and was aligning himself with Blaise at every turn.

Draco was going to have to take drastic measures, and that meant Pansy. Which, combined with the persistent irritation of the _imperius_ on Rosmerta, dormant but ever-present, and the time-consuming brewing of polyjuice in the six-floor bathroom, that fact that Snape was back to systematically ignoring him, and the load of classes he had insanely decided to take, plus making up for missed classes when they had ignored the summons – Draco felt like he was walking around strung like a taught wire, waiting to snap.

Which is why, this morning, Blaise had bragged, Draco had sulked, Potter had appeared and Draco had exploded. So much for the truce.

And now -

"PETRIFICUS TOTALUS!" came McGonogall's surprisingly forceful voice, and instantly his stomach sank. They were frozen in place, Potter straddling him, pinning his arms over his head, staring into his eyes. _Fuck. Shit. Shit. Shit. Fuck._

"Everyone else in this hallway – OUT!" McGonagall yelled, and the younger students scattered. "You too, Parkinson, Weasley, Granger. Off to your next class. Oh it's Transfiguration, isn't it? Well then you might as well stay and help me deal with these two."

_Oh good, _thought Draco,_ she's going to let us go._

"I'm not going to let you go," McGonagall stated simply as she approached the two boys. Resentment seethed in Draco's eyes, and he tried to project as much wrath as he possibly could without the use of his muscles. "No, I'm going to leave you just like this, for the rest of class. Then we'll see where we stand, shall we? Very good. Now," She turned to Pansy, Weasel and the Mudblood, "you three, cast a _leviosa _with me on three: one… two… three" and Draco felt his frozen, awkwardly positioned body suddenly weightless, and floating at a slight tilt, through the open door into the Transfiguration class room. Several students made shocked sounds, but these quickly gave way to wolf-whistles once he and Potter were plunked down on the floor at the back of the classroom.

"Kindly return your attentions to the front of the room, we will begin," said McGonagall. "Your fellow students have been petrified for their own sakes, can anyone tell me why _petrificus totalus_ is such an effective spell for this kind of situation?"

Predictably, the Mudblood's hand shot up into the air.

"Yes, Miss Granger?"

"_Petrificus totalus_ prevents voluntary muscle movements, but not involuntary muscle movements. You can't choose to close your eyes, for example, but your eyes can still blink if they need to."

"That's precisely right. Ten points for Gryffindor. Yes, a body-bindonly prevents voluntary movement, so that the body will still breathe, the heart will still pump, and the brain's synapses will still fire. Otherwise, it would be fatal."

Right now, Draco wished for something fatal. Draco and Potter were still staring right at each other, projecting animosity and… _fuck! _Draco could feel the pressure building in his groin. _Potter is sitting on me and staring at me and oh god no not now not now not now God I hate you so much, Harry fucking Potter_.

Eyes wide with horror and humiliation, Draco suddenly became aware that they were both, inexplicably, unbelievably, and inappropriately hard. Potter flushed to his ears and Draco felt his face growing warm, too. He wanted to close his eyes. More than that, he wanted Potter to close his eyes and stop staring down at him.

But the class seemed to drag on and on. At long last, McGonagall was dismissing the class. It was the last class before lunch, and everyone trooped out, but Potter's entourage seemed to want to linger. Vincent and Greg, too. McGonagall shooed them away and walked up to the boys, an uncharacteristically self-satisfied smirk on her face.

"Now, gentlemen, I'm considering releasing you, but if you do anything other than calmly walk out of my classroom I will not hesitate to transfigure you into a handsome pair of floral armchairs for Professors Slughorn's new office." Both boys shuddered. McGonagall gave them a short, appraising look, then muttered, "_finite_."

Potter immediately launched himself off of Draco, who was surprised to feel a disappointing chill where Potter's oppressive warmth had been pressed for the last hour. They both stood up briskly, and without looking at each other, or at McGonagall, walked one after the other out of the door. Potter turned to go up the stairs and Draco turned toward the stairs to the dungeons, unwilling to face lunch with the rest of the school after that humiliating display.

Draco took the stairs two at a time until he stood outside his common room. He took a deep breath, calmed his features, and strolled in. He had been prepared with a complaint about the smell of Potter and his disgusting friends and needing to take a shower to wash off the stench, but the common room was deserted. Relieved, he slipped under a hot shower, the steam fogging up the whole room, burning his white skin a raw pink. He closed his eyes. _Fucking Potter._ _Goddamn fucking Potter. _

Draco tilted his head back, ran his hands through his sleek wet hair, and opened his eyes. Something was still nagging him. He looked down. _Fuck._

He closed his eyes again and tried to banish the image of Potter straddling, but the image just kept getting more vivid. Green eyes gazing down at him, fingers threading through this own, holding his hands up over his head… and suddenly Potter isn't frozen anymore, but moving above him, rising and falling, riding him…

Draco swore under his breath, then grabbed his desperately hard length and pounded furiously for only a few seconds before he came, shooting streaks of hot come through his hand onto the tile wall. He sighed, unsatisfied and still seething. _What the fuck is wrong with me?_

That night at dinner Draco scowled at everyone in his vicinity, effectively silencing the occasional giggles that arose as the story of his unusual punished at McGonagall's hands spread throughout the school. _Thank gods_ he'd skipped lunch. He spared a glance at the Gryffindor tables when clapping briefly broke out as Potter entered the room. Apparently, Potter had been considered the victor of their scuffle by virtue of being frozen on top. Before he could look away, Potter caught his eyes, and they gazed at each other for a long minute, until Draco saw the side of Potters mouth twitch ever so slightly. _Did he just grin?_ Draco blinked, and narrowed his eyes into a glare, and Potter rolled his eyes and looked away, which was even more confusing.

Five minutes before curfew, Draco climbed out of bed, threw his robes over his green silk pyjamas, and started up the back staircase. He had no way of knowing whether Potter would be up there tonight, but he suspected that he would. He wasn't entirely sure why _he_ was going, but he chose not to think about it too carefully.

When he reached the fifth floor, he stopped, and turned the corner_._ Potter was standing in front of him, three feet away, wearing robes over Gryffindor-red pyjamas and a curious frown.

"What are you doing here, Malfoy?" It sounded like a challenge, but it lacked the usual bite.

"Rounds, Potter. And you're out after hours. Twenty points from Gryffindor," Draco answered, because he could.

Potter shrugged, and stepped closer. Draco narrowed his eyes and glared, "back off."

"Make. Me." Potter whispered, and Draco felt his heart beginning to race.

He flicked his wand under his robes and Potter was thrown against the wall. Again. In seconds, Draco's fingers were around Potter's throat, his over hand gripping one of Potter's arms and pulling it up beside his head and pinning it against the wall, while Potter's free arm tried in vain to loosen Draco's grip around his throat. Draco's feet were planted firmly between Potter's and he pressed his body flush against the other boy's, firmly ignoring the nervous twisting in the pit of his stomach. Draco's heartbeat was fast and erratic. Potter was at his mercy, and the thrill of it was electrifying.

Draco shuddered.

And then, Potter stopped struggling.

Draco could feel the other boy's heartbeat through his chest as he pressed against him. He relaxed his hold on Potter's throat, allowing his long, bony white fingers to trace the soft white skin he found there, and he felt Potter's breath hitch. Draco watched his adam's apple bobbing under his fingertips as he swallowed.

Draco stole a look up at Potter's face and saw he was flushed with arousal. Maybe it wasn't just a coincidence. As the thought crossed his mind, his eyes, without his permission, sought out Potter's, and their gazes locked. Potter's blushed bright red, but he didn't look away. Instead, he bucked his hips, slowly and deliberately grinding his arousal against Draco's and Draco couldn't stop himself responding, grinding back. Their erections were rubbing against each other through thin layers of soft fabric with every movement, and the tension building in Draco's groin was too great to ignore. He started moving more forcefully, releasing Potters arm and breaking their gaze to lean his head against wall beside Potter's head.

A temptation toward wild abandon seized Draco as he responded furiously to Potter's writhing, rubbing movements against him. He had released Potter's neck and his hand was now snaking around Potter's waist. His cock was aching and if he closed his eyes, maybe he could forget whose that warm, urgent body next to his was. And yet, that other erection… that was _Potter's_ erection. _Potter's hard cock_. _Potter's hard cock rubbing against his own…_ That should probably bother him more than it did. But Potter was hard, too. Potter had shown up, for some reason. Had provoked him. Potter… _Potter wanted it, too_.

Draco squeezed his eyes shut as he leaned his forehead against the wall. His hand had come to rest in the soft curve at the base of Potter's spine, and he stretched out the fingers of his hand over the waistband of Potter's pyjama bottoms. The tip of his pinky finger barely slid on the soft silk and slipped into the groove of Potter's arse. Potter's breath hitched again and he turned his face into Draco's neck, and stifled a whimper. The sound was like electricity shooting directly from Draco's ear to his cock… two more erratic thrusts, and Draco exploded into his pants. Potter came almost immediately afterwards, and Draco was sure he could actually feel Potter's cock pulsing beside his.

Finally both boys were still, panting, hearts racing. Draco's eyes were still closed and he really, really did not want to move. Not just yet.

But sickening dread quickly broke through his post-orgasmic haze and he gathered the strength to shove himself off of that warm body, but he couldn't bear to look up. He just couldn't bear to see Potter's face. Instead, he simply stood back, looking away down the hall, and took a deep breath. He heard Potter open his mouth and inhale as if to say something, but nothing came out. Unwilling to wait, to hear it, that _word_ thrown back at him again, unwilling to see that_ look_ that he was probably plastered across Potter's face, Draco walked away, leaving the other boy slumped against the wall.

Back in his room, Draco threw himself onto his bed and stared at the curtains hanging from his four-poster. Waves of shame, and dread, and humiliation, and abject fear, began to wash over him, and it seemed like hours before sleep finally claimed him.


	18. Nott

meisu: thank you!

So, a little bit of displacement going on in Draco's muddled psyche. Poor boy.

Hey! Look! There's a review button down there! How convenient! Maybe... click on it and leave me a "super" or a "sucks balls" or something... please?

**Chapter 18: Nott**

The next morning at breakfast, Draco deliberately counted every single head at the Slytherin table to keep himself from searching the Gryffindor table for Potter. Unfortunately, his regular seat gave him a perfect view of their table and a move in seating might look like a power play. After surveying his options for breakfast disdainfully he opted for oatmeal, which might as well have been soggy cardboard. After three miserable bites, he finally looked up.

Potter was sitting surrounded by his entourage and the rest of his Gryffindor hangers-on. They all talking seriously, pouring over the Prophet. Draco's stomach lurched when Potter looked up and his eyes met Draco's, but then Potter blushed and Draco couldn't help himself smirking. _Ok, so Potter hasn't told_. Draco looked away relieved and tried to interest himself in the political intrigues going around him.

Next to him, Pansy was needling Millicent, who was apparently dating one of the seventh years now. On his other side, Greg was shovelling in food and next to him, Vincent was pretending not to look across the table at Nott. Nott, meanwhile, was nervously watching Blaise who sat next to him, across from Draco. Blaise was glaring enviously at Draco because Pansy had turned back and was leaning in close to whisper something about Millicent who was now huffing over whatever Pansy had just said.

Draco smirked at Millicent, and turned back to Nott just in time to catch Nott's eyes as he looked away from Blaise. Nott reddened and scowled at him, turning to catch Vincent's eyes and then – _ah, this is interesting_. Now Vincent is scowling and Nott looks… guilty? _Ooh, very interesting_, Draco reflected. He might have just found out something very valuable about Nott. He stole a glance at Greg, who was still shovelling in food, completely oblivious.

This new revelation was so delightfully juicy that Draco managed to distract himself most of the day watching for another slip, but none came. Greg and Vincent spent the evening at his feet and Nott was holed up in the library with Blaise. Draco sat in his usual seat on the far end of the large leather sofa holding court with the younger Slytherins for much of the evening. Several of the seventh and fifth years sat scattered around, variously coming and going. Pansy was behind him, sprawled across the arm of the couch, playing idly with his hair and occasionally tossing veiled insults at the other girls in the room. Draco tried his best not to watch the clock. He hadn't been devoting enough time to maintaining his position here, and public displays like this were essential. He was still in place when Blaise and Nott strolled in around ten, and Draco cursed himself for not having left sooner. Now he would have to stay put until either they or the majority of others left. Otherwise, one of them would challenge his position.

Which is why he was so surprised when Nott headed directly to their dorm without even looking up. And shortly thereafter, Vincent nudged Greg, who nodded, and then both of them looked up at Draco expectantly. He nodded and rose, giving them permission to do the same.

Draco strolled out leisurely making an excuse about NEWTs, and to his relief, Pansy and Millicent also rose to leave, as did the remaining seventh years. Blaise was left with relatively few Slytherins to lord over. Draco smirked to himself.

When he reached the dorm room it was empty except for Vincent, who was undressing. He looked up at Draco with a blank expression. Moments later, Nott walked in and looked directly in the direction of Vincent, who gruffly turned around and pointedly ignored him. Nott looked vaguely hurt… and then he noticed Draco standing on the other side of the room and he went a little pale, then scowled and banged around looking for his toothbrush before storming out. As the door slammed shut, Vincent winced slightly, then sat down heavily on the bed, and sighed.

Yep. Definitely. Oh this was just too good.

But how best to exploit it?

He wondered how long it had been going on. And he wondered if Greg knew. Or Blaise, for that matter.

If they didn't, it was because the two had been remarkably discreet, which was somewhat alarming to Draco, who was used to always being in the know.

If they do know… well it would certainly make sense if Blaise knew, it would explain Nott taking sides with him all the time. This was certainly a powerful piece of information. How to use it without alienating Vincent?

Well, Draco was pretty sure he could use it without risking Vincent's loyalty by threatening to tell his father, which was a real possibility since he actually did run into the man often when he was summoned. But he'd rather not have to threaten if he could simply dictate.

That night Draco was lying in bed pondering this lovely new ammunition when he rolled over and looked at his clock. The hand was pointing helpfully as "five minutes to curfew," a category which hadn't existed until recently, it occurred to him. Something twisted in his gut and he felt a sort of tightness in his chest as he stared at the words and seriously considered getting up and going. If he left now, he'd get there at the same time as last night, and the times before.

Through the darkness, he could hear Vincent shuffling around quietly, could hear Nott's muffled snore…

No. He couldn't go. Just the faintest suggestion of the possibility of something like that would be a death sentence. Here he was, considering lucrative variations on blackmail by planning to trade on just the same sort of knowledge. No, absolutely not. Last night was a mistake. Draco regretted it, and Potter probably did too.

He rolled over and closed his eyes, firmly deciding that the nagging ache in his chest was just shame over what had happened, and nothing else.

* * *

For the next two days Draco systematically displaced all of the energy he usually spent making Potter and his little posse miserable onto quietly observing Vincent and Nott. He began to require Greg and Vincent to accompany him more often, to gauge Nott's reactions. Nott seemed to be trying to get Vincent on his own but Draco foiled him at every turn. He couldn't tell if Vincent was annoyed by this or not, which was a cause for a serious reevaluation of Vincent's ability to dissemble. It was rather alarming how effective he was at hiding this, and Draco was starting to doubt his conclusions until finally, on Friday night, he caught them.

He was doing rounds in the dungeons, because he was really only interested in Prefect Duties that benefitted him personally, and he stood the best chance of catching someone with something to offer if he patrolled the territory where his own house as most likely to sneak out to.

He heard the muffled whispering from a dark, deserted corridor off of the main hall. Whispering, and then a grunt, and a moan, and _oh_. _Brilliant_, Draco thought. I wonder who the girl is. I bet it's Millie.

He slowed down and ducked quietly into an alcove that would give him a perfect view around the corner and into the hallway.

Draco clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle a gasp.

He saw the tall, muscular frame of Vincent… pressed against the slighter, shorter frame of… Theodore Nott. Draco sucked in a breath as he watched the two boys, completely transfixed. Nott was up against the wall, arms wrapped around Vincent's neck, kissing him, one of his hands playing with Vincent's hair.

Draco felt a pang of something in his chest.

Vincent was kissing back, but his hands were… _oh gods_… Draco couldn't see but he could hear the fumbling of buttons and the slide of fabric, then Vincent grunted and grabbed Nott by the shoulders pulling his mouth away, and roughly spun Nott around to face the wall.

Draco felt his stomach lurch.

Nott let out a needy little whimper of "_Please_, Vince" as Vincent prepared him. And then, though he couldn't see, Draco knew it when he had entered him and Nott nearly cried out "fuck_yes_!" his hands scrabbling for purchase on the cold brick walls of the dungeon.

"Theo," Vincent growled, and then… then he leaned forward and twisted Nott's face toward him and… kissed him. They kissed, and kissed… rocking slowly and leisurely now, and…

Draco choked.

Despite his now raging hard-on, Draco was overcome with the aching in his chest and the lump in his throat that was so completely disorienting he couldn't possibly watch another minute.

And so he left.

* * *

When he got to the fifth floor hallway, Potter was already there, leaning against the wall beside the suit of armour. Draco walked up, but Potter seemed to ignore him. Finally he stood up to face Draco, head cocked to one side and an odd sort of smile twisting his features. But behind the smile he looked… nervous.

"Out after hours again, Potter. Thirty more points from Gryffindor," Draco said quietly, stepping forward.

Potter shrugged and stepped a little closer. Then he answered in harsh whisper,

"Fuck you, Malfoy."

Draco stepped closer and answered even more quietly, barely audible over the rushing in his own ears,

"No thanks, Potter." His grey eyes held Potter's. They were now standing so close, close enough to touch, close enough to hear each other breathing. Their eyes were locked, locked like they had been so many times before, but this time something was screaming inside of Draco and the lump in his throat felt like it might burst if he didn't...

Draco's eyes drifted to Potter's lips. They looked… red. And soft. He looked up to see that Potter was staring at his mouth, too. Draco tentatively licked his bottom lip, and heard Potter's breath shorten. The blood was pounding in his ears as Potter stepped closer and made a small movement like hw wanted to reach out and touch him, then dropped his arm. Draco exhaled, but then Potter seemed to find his Gryffindor bravery again. Draco held his breath as he watched and somehow _felt_ Potter's hand slowly reaching up as if to pull a strand of hair out of Draco's eyes. For several agonizing seconds his hand hovered, trembling.

But before his fingers even brushed him, Potter sighed loudly and stepped back, running his own messy brown hair instead and groaning in frustration.

Something like pain constricted Draco's chest and against his better judgement, he took a step toward, but Potter flinched. A surge of panic and regret flooded through Draco and he turned and fled back to the dungeons without looking back, ignoring Potter when he called out his name.

Draco flew through the halls, through the common room, into his dorm, and into bed. He locked his curtains with every silencing spell and ward he knew and threw his face down on the pillow.

_Fuck._

He wanted to scream.

He wanted to throw things.

He wanted to hex Potter, and Vincent, and Nott, and Snape, for that matter, and maybe even the Dark Lord himself, for making him feel this way.

_Fuck._


	19. Smirk

_The Dabbler:_ Thank you so much for your thoughtful response, and yes, I'm certainly going to keep going. I have big plans for Draco's winter hols.

_Trinity Lost:_ Thanks as always for your praise and encouragement. I know what you mean about the VC/TN situation, I wasn't expecting them to get together and I was as surprised as Draco, but I think that it was important for Draco to see them in order to start coming to terms with himself. Also, I'm not even halfway through what all still needs to happen, so don't worry, I'm going to keep posting at least one per day until it's done.

So, because lots of people have told me they really prefer it, I've rewritten this chapter and the previous two to give only Draco's POV of this whole emerging slash. Because I'm nice like that, and really, I like Draco better, too.

**Chapter 19: Smirk**

When he woke up the next morning, Draco concluded it was worth beginning to trade on his new knowledge about Nott if only to spare himself the indignity of ever looking that obnoxious, arrogant, Gryffindor coward in the face again.

Which is why, at breakfast, he displaced Nott in order to sit with his back to the Gryffindor table. Nott made no comment, and sat miserably next to Pansy, who sneered, and Greg, who shovelled in food. Vincent was on the other side of Greg and seemed sublimely disinterested in the rearrangement one way or the other.

Draco took the opportunity afforded by the shuffling to needle Blaise about his recent mediocre marks in Transfiguration. Blaise scowled and that cheered Draco up, but only marginally.

Once Potter and his clinging minions had left the Great Hall, Draco followed with the other Slytherin sixth years. They approached the Gryffindors waiting outside the Potions classroom, and Draco sneered at each one in turn, except Potter. He didn't even look deign at him.

They slid into their seats in class just as Slughorn bumbled in. Draco willed himself to focus on his notes, but eventually gave in and dared to glance over at Potter. He looked satisfyingly miserable.

And then Potter met his gaze and Draco looked away. As soon as those green eyes locked on his own a surge of heat and tightness sucked up his chest and he felt he couldn't breathe. It felt so much worse than the satisfying waves of rage and indignation, or even the bitter fury of humiliation, he used to feel when he looked at Potter. This was… _painful_.

Slughorn quickly launched into a lecture on the uses of acacia in household cleaning potions, interjecting here and there little anecdotes about famous former students. Draco was determined to outdo Potter in the practical today. Fierce competition was safe territory.

As Slughorn approached their desks to evaluate the contents of each student's cauldron at the end of class, Potter and Draco locked eyes again and they shared a brief, fierce glare. Draco relished the safety of this familiar emotion, before Slughorn drew Draco's eyes away, proclaiming his potion "Quite good," and Potter's "Superb."

Draco scowled all the way to lunch. _Goddamn fucking Potter._ Safe, familiar rage began to build inside him as he watched Potter eating his lunch with obnoxious fans. Their eyes met, and this time Draco glared into them with all the hatred he could possibly muster, and Potter actually had the audacity to looked surprised for a second, before he, too, narrowed his eyes and set his jaw.

Three… Two….

One.

Draco rose from his seat loudly, grabbed his bag, and stormed out of the Great Hall without another word.

He ducked into an abandoned classroom off of the main hallway, and waited. The windows in the room had been boarded up, apparently, and it was oddly dark inside despite the early hour. Draco closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

Within mere minutes, he heard Potter's loping gait outside the door. He reached out, grabbed him by the robes and dragged him into the classroom, slamming the door behind them. He had Potter by the scruff of his robes, and his wand pointed at his throat.

"What the fuck, Malfoy?" Potter whispered hoarsely.

"Stay the fuck away from me," Draco enunciated in a slow, quiet whisper.

"_You_ pulled _me_ in here!" Potter whispered back, trying to release his robes from Draco's fingers.

"You _followed_ me!" Draco retorted.

"You _wanted_ me to!" Potter shot back.

Draco was so surprised, he simply stared at the boy. They were both taking fast, shallow breaths and it seemed like there was electricity crackling between them. Draco felt the twisting, coiling _something_ in his chest begin to rise into his throat.

He watched as Potter's eyes flickered from his eyes to his lips and back. Draco glanced down at Potter's red, red lips and back up into those green eyes. And then Potter leaned forward just a fraction…

And suddenly their lips met and Draco's wand dropped to the floor. His mouth opened in a gasp and Potter slipped in his tongue, licking Draco's lower lip, exploring his mouth. Draco was frozen at firs, but then he felt the anger and anxiety and everything else that had coiling in his chest begin to dissipate and he pressed his own tongue against Potter's, and then into Potter's mouth, swallowing a moan from him as his tongue swirled with the other boy's. Draco still had Potter by the front of his robes and he pulled him closer into the kiss. Potter brought his hands up to wrap around Draco's neck. Draco moaned, fingers twisting into the fabric of Potter's shirt and Potter running his fingers through Draco's hair. They were fast, and frantic, and urgent.

But finally, needing to come up for air, needing to feel solid ground beneath his feet, Draco broke the kiss. He leaned his arm against the wall behind Potter and his head hung limp. Potter leaned his head back against the wall, looking at the ceiling. Both boys were panting.

Neither boy said anything, but the thrill of the kiss quickly gave way to waves of panic, and Draco couldn't hold out any longer. He pushed himself off the wall, grabbed his bag, and fled the room without so much as a glance at Potter.

Aroused, frustrated, and humiliated by his own lack of self-control, he sat in Advanced Arithmancy not even bothering to take notes (Blaise would have better ones, anyway). He took deep, calming breaths. But his stomach clenched in what was unmistakably fear. And he tried to think of something, anything, other than what had just happened in that abandoned classroom.

When that didn't work, he sat alternately convincing himself that Potter would run to his friends, or worse, some professor, and accuse him of sexual assault… or that he would decide that they were now somehow… _involved_. He couldn't really decide which would be worse, that Potter was terrified and disgusted, or that he had liked it. And now what? Would he want to do it again? No, of course not. And neither did Draco, of course. It was all a ridiculous mistake, and Potter would probably be too disgusted and mortified to say anything. Yes. Hopefully. _Oh gods_.

He gritted his teeth to hold back any reaction as the waves of humiliation washed over him, adding layers of bitterness and regret. Flashes of public humiliation, of Blaise and Nott and Snape and the whole bloody school knowing… _gods_… it was unbearable. How could he be so stupid? He had handed his enemy the perfect way to destroy him.

And, as though he were the punch-line to a cruel joke, Draco was hard again.

After another hour of not paying attention, and then some exercises on the board which he diligently copied down and did not even attempt to solve, Draco packed up his books neatly into his bag and prepared to walk with the Slytherins down to Herbology with… _Fuck._ Herbology with the Gryffindors.

Potter was already in his customary seat flanked by his posse and that insufferable Hufflepuff.

Draco managed to avoid looking at their table until Sprout had begun a long and drawn out lecture and everyone had begun taking notes. Draco finally risked a glance, and Potter's eyes met his almost immediately. Both boys blushed visibly, and looked away.

But Draco stole a few more surreptitious glances at Potter while the latter was whispering with his followers. _Has he told them?_ Draco wondered. _No._ For some reason he hadn't. Well, he's horrified, of course, that's why. Ok. Good, that should be a relief... but somehow that relief rang hollow… Hollow like the soft curve at the base of Potter's spine. Hollow like the cavity of his throat between the taut neck muscles and his protruding collarbone… where the skin was soft and white and probably warm even out here in the greenhouses… _fuck!_

* * *

At dinner, Draco resolved to stay focused on his own table. Pansy and Millicent were bitching. Vincent and Greg were eating. Nott was sneaking glances at Vincent, who occasionally met them with a feigned indifference that Draco was really starting to admire, frankly.

But Draco had retaken his customary seat, and eventually he couldn't resist the urge to glance over at the Gryffindor table. And there was Potter, looking strangely thoughtful, completely ignoring his adoring fans. His eyes flitted up to meet Draco's and he blushed, but he didn't look away. And for some reason, neither did Draco.

For a few frightening seconds it was like all the other people in the room, all the noise and movement, was a blur of slow motion and they were the only two people in focus, staring at each other, flushed with… _something_. Too soon (or not soon enough), someone tapped Potter on the shoulder and he looked away, nodding vaguely. People were beginning to head back to the dorms. Draco looked around and saw similar movements going on at the Slytherin table.

Out in the hallway, Draco dawdled. His eyes drifted over to Potter and his posse, who were just heading up the stairs. As discreetly as possible, Draco's eyes sought out Potter's, and when Potter turned around to laugh at something the Finnigan boy said, he looked behind him and straight at Draco, and… smiled. Draco barely had time to register how extremely odd that was before both boys' attentions were drawn back to their friends and they departed in opposite directions.

At five-to-curfew, Draco threw his robes over his pyjamas and left through the common room without a second thought. Yet on the way up the stairs to the fifth floor corridor, he stopped. He nearly turned back. Twice.

Why was he even going up there? Did he expect Potter to be there? Did he even want Potter to be there?

When he arrived, the hallway was empty. Draco decided at that moment that he was the biggest fool in the whole world and that he should just hurry up and kill the Headmaster and get the fuck out of Hogwarts because everyone here absolutely sucks and _I hate them all… _

_Especially Harry Potter._

He leaned against the wall beside the coat of arms and frowned. He tried not to think about why he was waiting. Why he had even bothered to come. What the hell he was doing. For all he knew, Potter was intentionally trying to manipulate him and then expose him. This was all completely absurd and dangerous and… then he heard footsteps down the corridor.

Draco could see Potter approaching slowly, and he looked down at his nails and tried to exude casual disinterest. Potter walked up to him, and came to stand right in front of him, but Draco didn't look up. He couldn't bear to see Potter smirking at him because he had shown up. And worse, because he had waited. Everyone always waits for Harry fucking Potter, and now here was Draco Malfoy, a purelood fucking Death Eater, standing in a freezing fucking hallway in the middle of the fucking night waiting for the goddamn Golden Boy and it was all just too much for his dignity to bear.

Draco nearly jumped out of his skin when, in a moment of déjà vu too surreal to describe, thin calloused fingers reached out and touched his chin, lifting his head to look up into worried eyes – a gesture so terrifyingly familiar, but those eyes were green instead of red, worried instead of appraising. He nearly choked when another hand - warm, not cold, tan, not white - came up and tenderly brushed a lock of blond hair out of his eyes. Draco shivered.

Draco gazed into Potter's eyes, and then, possessed by something he could not name, he reached an arm out and pulled Potter by the scruff of his nightshirt into a searing kiss. Potter quickly pressed against him, grinding his hips, and Draco felt warmth flooding him and his head began to spin. He groaned as he felt the smooth fabric of his silk pyjama bottoms sliding along the head of his already-dripping cock. Of its own accord, Draco's hand drifted down to Potter's hips, pulling him closer, and he gasped as he felt Potter's arousal sliding against his own. Draco dropped one hand down to that tempting, tantalizing curve of Potter's lower back, his palm sliding over silk to grip the soft flesh of Potter's arse. He heard Potter trying to stifle a whimper. They were moving faster now, grunting and rubbing in a frantic rhythm, breaking the kiss to thrust more urgently. Finally Draco couldn't hold back any more, and with two erratic thrusts, he felt himself exploding in warm wet come against Potter, who thrust back once more, and then came, too.

Potter was panting, leaning against the wall with one arm, the other hand brushing Draco's hip. Predictably, panic and dread began to seep through the Draco's haze and he started to feel like Potter was oppressively hot and close. He dropped his hands from Potter's hips, but for some reason Potter caught his hand and held it. Draco looked up, confused.

And then Potter bent in for another kiss, and Draco stopped thinking. They kissed for several long, languorous minutes, before finally parting silently and going their separate ways. Draco smirked the whole way back to Slytherin.

* * *

So... how do you feel about Potter's gestures mirroring the Dark Lord's? Creepy? Cool? Sort of adds a new dimension to Draco's struggle of conscience as he's being literally seduced by both the Dark and the Light.

Also, for those of you who are worried about fluff – fear not! I promise you, no matter how pretty Potter's big green eyes might be, Draco is not going to wake up and magically be a totally different person and switch sides because the Golden Boy kissed him. That would be lame.


	20. Polyjuice

**Warning:** This chapter includes the threat of non-consensual sex with a minor child. Next chapter will include a graphic depiction of rape, victim tbd.

_TrinityLost:_ Thank you for your faithful comments. I agree that it's unrealistic that he would have no qualms. I also don't believe he's just harmless and misunderstood. This is a grey!Draco – power-hungry, self-absorbed, and manipulative, but redeemable.

**Chapter 20: Polyjuice - rewritten!**

The next morning at breakfast Potter came in looking tired and unkempt as usual. Draco watched him over his goblet of juice. Potter looked up, and his lips curved into the slightest grin. Draco rolled his eyes, and then Potter broke out into an actual smile. _Gods, he's just insufferable_, Draco thought.

But he didn't really feel like hexing him, which was remarkably disorienting.

In fact, this whole mess was disorienting. He wasn't really sure what was going on. He still hated the arrogant arse, but his desire to humiliate and dominate had been replaced by a desire to… well… to make-out and dominate.

Draco was pondering this over his pumpkin juice when his wand started vibrating and he sat up with a jolt. _Shit. The Polyjuice_. He rose and strolled calmly out of the Great Hall, but as soon as he was on the stairs he began to run. He'd forgotten. And now was his chance. His hand instinctively grasped the little piece of folded parchment which held the hairs of two little Hufflepuff first-years he'd collected last week.

When he reached the door to the sixth-floor bathroom, he heard a quiet, giggling sound. _Shit._

He took a deep breath and tried to relax – doubtless it was some ridiculous little second years sneaking around in the locked bathroom, that's all. He just hoped his two months of brewing wasn't wrecked.

He pushed the door open, wand in hand, and saw…

No one. The bathroom was empty. He sent a _revelio_ through the room and it came back empty.

But then the giggling started up again, from one of the warded stalls.

He walked up slowly, keeping his wand raised, and when he reached the stall, swung it open with a bang.

But the stall was empty.

And that when he heard the giggling coming from below him and saw the face of Moaning Myrtle peering up at him from the toilet bowl.

"Heehee, hiiiii!" She giggled. Draco slammed the door shut and went to the broom closet where his potion was now ready and simmering.

Myrtle followed him. "No need to be so rude," she huffed. Draco ignored her. _Gods_, this is the last thing he needed. "Ooooh what's that?" she crooned, peering over his shoulder as he distributed the polyjuice into three large flasks he'd unshrunk from his bag.

"Sod off," he answered, placing one full flask carefully into his bag for later, and pulling out the little folded packet with two hairs – one blond and one red.

As he dropped a hair into each, they bubbled and gurgled and changed colours. One was a murky green, the other a vivid violet. For a moment Draco wondered what his would look like, but he wasn't willing to risk finding out.

Ignoring Myrtle, he packed up the rest of his things and cast a quick shrinking charm on them, before heading back down to his first class.

* * *

As it turns out, Greg and Vincent were much less compliant that Draco had hoped.

"No," Greg roared, storming out of the hallway and into Defense. Vincent scowled and followed. Of course, Draco was furious, but at least they hadn't mutinied in public. They were late to class because they had been held up arguing in the hallway. Snape would flay them, but at least no one had seen them. Public disagreements like that could be explosive to the Slytherin hierarchy and could not be tolerated.

Draco strolled into the classroom knowing he had already aggravated Snape and deciding he might as well push him a little further. Maybe he would acknowledge Draco's existence again. You never knew.

"Mr. Malfoy, I see you've chosen to grace us with your presence this morning. How generous." _Surprise, surprise_. Draco smirked at Snape, and Snape sneered back, adding, "detention, I think."

Several people gasped. Draco rolled his eyes and slumped into his chair, making a show of his displeasure. Let Snape win this round, show that he's in charge. Because Draco had proven his point – he could still get a rise out of Snape.

Draco's seat was next to Vincent, and in front of Blaise and Nott, with Millie and Greg behind them. Across the aisle and two rows down, Potter sat with his cronies. Once the class had settled and Snape was going on about the Dark Lord, Draco found his eyes drifting down to Potter's table.

He sighed. Now is not the time.

Draco leaned over just enough so that only Vincent could hear him, and began needling him again.

"Come one, Vincent," he whispered.

"No,"

"Why not?"

"Why should I?" he whispered back, and Draco had an answer prepared,

"Because it would be a shame if you couldn't finish out the school year, don't you think?"

"Why wouldn't I?" Vincent asked, his face a blank. But Draco wasn't buying the act anymore, and narrowed his eyes,

"I just can't imagine your father would permit you to stay once he hears about you and… _Theo_."

Vincent's eyes narrowed and he turned physically to face Draco, "what did you say?" he ground out through clenched teeth.

Several heads turned around and Snape paused, a disdainful look on his face, before continuing his lecture.

Draco was actually surprised by Vincent's response. He'd expected a blush, or a stutter, but not this. Still, he maintained his composure.

"I'm just saying, _Vince,_ that it would be a shame, that's all," he answered, a look of feigned innocence on his brow.

Vincent looked at him long and hard and Draco was surprised to see the level of careful calculation behind his eyes. He thought to himself that Vincent, at least, was not a Slytherin for nothing.

"Fine," he finally answered.

Draco nodded and turned back to his notes, though inwardly he sighed in relief.

He glanced over at the back of Potter's head. His timing could have been better. Tomorrow was the first match between Slytherin and the Gryffindorks and Draco really, really wanted to beat those arrogant arses this year.

* * *

Draco stood in front of the mirror in the sixth year boy's dorm the next morning. Draco was up before everyone else, as usual. He could hear gentle snoring from some of the other beds. He stood gazing into the mirror, seriously considering whether he should throw on his Quidditch robes or take this opportunity to get down to business when the castle would be deserted. He had almost decided to play – had even pulled off his shirt – when he caught sight of his arm in the reflection.

His heart sank.

No, Draco was not like everyone else. He couldn't go play Quidditch. Draco had more important responsibilities. He tried to make himself feel important, but he just felt… tired. And lonely.

His thoughts drifted to Potter. Potter would be playing today. They would have been playing together. He might even have been able to distract him long enough to actually catch the bloody snitch this time.

Draco was sorely tempted.

But the writhing serpent on his arm recalled him from his ridiculous daydream and he hastily put on a black turtleneck and black dress trousers, and strode out of the dorm to find Harper.

Twenty minutes of bargaining later and Draco had convinced Harper to take his place in the game and confirm him sick. Now he just needed to wake up the other two.

Draco had briefly considered choosing male first-years for them to become, but had decided against it, largely out of a cruel sense of humour, but also because disguising them as female really was a legitimate strategy to avoid suspicion. He knew there was no way he could work in that room without someone standing guard. The damn cabinet was too heavy to move and too magically loaded for even a lightening spell or a simple _leviosa_. He couldn't imagine how it had gotten in their in the first place, but obviously whoever put it there was willing to go to great lengths to hide it. Draco had tried to conjure an empty room and then, once inside, require the cabinet, but it wouldn't budge. He could require a couch and the room would become a sitting room. He could reach up to hang his robe and the wall would grow a hook where he required one. But he could not get the damn cabinet in there. Probably the room was spelled to collapse similar needs, and since Draco couldn't require the cabinet without still requiring it be hidden, and because the cabinet had been put there by someone who apparently still needed it hidden, there was no way around working with it in the Room of Lost Objects.

Unfortunately, that meant that anyone, even Dumbledore himself, could get in while he was there: all they would have to do is require a room to hide something in.

Draco had puzzled it over and could find no other solution. His proximity wards were weak at best, and the castle shifted so much that they never lasted long enough. Besides, students walked past here all the time. No, he needed actual, human guards. Besides, they might be useful test subjects.

The problem is, he really couldn't tell them why he was working in there. Loyal or not, he could not trust them with this, too much was at stake. Which meant he had to convince them to change into pre-pubescent girls and stand out in the seventh floor hall watching for anyone who might cause a problem.

Once the other Slytherins had departed for the match, Draco dragged Greg and Vincent back into their dormroom and locked the door.

Predictably, Greg and Vincent bitched and moaned at every turn. They were of course deliciously mortified when they were converted into their female forms and had to put on the girl clothes Draco transfigured for them, but girl-Greg quickly found the appeal and excused himself for a rather indecent amount of time to explore his new, eleven-year-old-girl body. Girl-Vincent, on the other hand, looked queasy and kept checking the door to their dorm room.

Up on the seventh floor, Draco explained their task. Greg seemed disappointed and Vincent seemed suspicious, but they complied. Draco then stood in front of the blank stretch of wall and took a deep breath, trying to focus his mind on what he needed. Then he walked back and forth past the wall three times, and a simple wooden door materialised where brick had been a moment before.

Draco nodded at the two girls standing in the hallway, one of them clutching Draco old potions scales from from third year to use as a warning should someone come. He pulled open the door, stepped inside, and shut it firmly behind him.

The room was cluttered with other people's junk. He could see assorted furniture, books, several bottles of cooking sherry, a chinese gong, and a stack of muggle magazines featuring women in various states of undress. In the distance he could make out the bust of a woman wearing a beat-up old tiara. Apart from the magazines and bottles of booze, which seemed to move around and change in volume, nothing much had changed since the last time he stepped in here.

He navigated through the haphazard aisles until he reached the hulking black cabinet. It was triangular in shape, with doors that joined at the foremost angle. Ornate carvings with jade-inlay of magical animals decorated the borders along the top and bottom. A pair of discrete, green handles hung low from each door. Probably copper that had tarnish, Draco thought.

He took a deep breath, unshrunk his book of travel and transport spells Borgin had sent him and began to work.

Three hours later, Draco emerged. He'd gotten no where. Or at least, not that he could tell. He could not get the cabinet to even vanish anything, much less transport it. And even if he did, he was beginning to realise just how hard it would be to even test the damn thing from so far away.

He was so unbelievably frustrated by the whole project, cursing himself for having put it off for so long, that he failed to notice the mutinous glint in girl-Vincent's eyes.

Immediately, questions started. Of course, Draco refused to tell them what he was doing, and normally that wouldn't be a problem, but they seemed to think that by going along with the whole polyjuice plot _they_ were doing _him_ a favour. _Honestly_.

"Fuck this, Draco. I bet this isn't even part of your mission for the Dark Lord!" came the Vincent's gravelly voice out of his mismatched female body after they had been arguing in the hallway for a while.

That caught Draco by surprise. Not only was Vincent implying that he for sure Draco had a mission from the Dark Lord, which Draco had until now only implied, but as far as the cabinet was concerned, well, it wasn't really. Draco was pretty sure he could spin it if he had to, but Vincent's accusation was a little too close to the mark.

Enraged by his own procrastination, feeling magically impotent in his failure to make even the slightest headway in fixing the damn thing, and infuriated to no end by Vincent's persistent rebellion which only reminded him of his precarious position at Slytherin and among the Death Eaters, Draco balled his hands into fists, closed his eyes, and decided he would not tolerate it any longer.

He looked appraisingly at the two of them, slight, feminine chins stuck out stubbornly, and a smirk slowly curved the sides of his mouth. He might not be able to control much, but he could control this situation right here and now. A flash of vindictive pleasure rose in him as he untucked his wand from inside his sleeve.

In a flash, he cast a silent _impedimenta_ on girl-Greg and flicked his wand to throw girl-Vincent's body against the opposite wall where he held it with a sticking charm. Girl-Vincent struggled against the bind but couldn't break it.

"I would not fuck with me right now, _Vince_." He said quietly, stepped slowly toward the girl. He knew his face was menacing, and he could see the dawning horror in girl-Vincent's delicate features as he moved in close, bending down to look into his eyes.

He drew a long, white finger over girl-Vincent's pale cheek, and the girl in front of his shuddered, and Draco felt a tingle of pleasure in his finger tips.

"Don't," came the male voice out of the girl.

"Why not? You think Nott might get jealous?" Draco placed one hand roughly on the frail little hips. His other hand, traced down rest around the tiny, female throat, and finally he dragged his finger slowly and provocatively, brushing over each of the emerging breast-buds of this absurdly young female body. Girl-Vincent shuddered again and looked away.

Draco relished the surge of power he felt at the sight of this pathetic creature whimpering under his touch. He dragged his finger down to brush over the strangely flat, female crotch, then gripped the little hips with both hands and pressed himself roughly against him/her. He wasn't hard, but it was still threatening.

"Or have you never bottomed before?" He whispered into girl-Vincent's delicate ear. The little eyes went wide with horror.

Oh, the sweet perversion.

Girl-Vincent closed his eyes, and Draco smirked when he saw a tear rolling down his soft pre-pubescent cheek.

"There, there, don't cry sweetie," he whispered cruelly, wiping the tear with his thumb. Then he pushed himself off of the wall and surveyed the two of them disdainfully. Power surged and lapped inside him, warming him, cheering him. He breathed it in.

"You do what I tell you, and you don't have to worry that I'll hand you over to our friends looking like _that_," he smirked at them, releasing the spells, and disappearing around the corner.

Neither Vincent nor Greg showed up for dinner, but that didn't surprise Draco much. He sat next to Pansy and flirted to annoy Blaise. He watched Potter and his minions celebrating their Quidditch victory and tried to scowl. He was annoyed, of course, but the thrill of emasculating his hired muscle was so invigorating he could hardly contain it.

It occurred to him, briefly, that he might have gone a bit far when he thought of the lone tear rolling down that little girl's face. But who (well, who among the Slytherins) could possibly hold it against him? It was too easy.

Draco was still riding the high of his display of power as he walked up the back stairs that night when wrenching, searing pain jolted through his arm from his fingers to his shoulders.

Snape was waiting for him, already wearing his cloak, when he arrived at his office door. They walked in silence and apparated into the front hall of the cold, dark house.

Draco conjured his mask and walked into the room – and froze.

The Dark Lord sat in his chair, and beside him on either side stood the hulking frames of Mr. Crabbe and Mr. Goyle.


	21. Twelve

**Warning:** This chapter includes a depiction of torture and sexual assault of a minor child. Technically the minor child is polyjuiced… But still, it's pretty disturbing. So, you've been warned.

**Chapter 21: Twelve**

Draco stood silent, as the Dark Lord stood and circled him. The crowd around him grew menacingly close and he felt the cold room getting unaccountably warmer.

_Vincent, _he thought. _Possibly Greg_. It didn't matter now. He'd have to explain. How? _Shit._ He should never have trusted them. How to lie without lying? Draco's hands felt clammy but he didn't speak, because he knew he couldn't lie without having his throat slit from the inside again.

The Dark Lord was watching him closely as he stopped and stood on the other side of the circle. He raised his wand casually, and pain surged through Draco's body, shooting down his spine and out through every nerve ending. It went on and on and he had no idea whether he was screaming or not. Finally, it stopped, and he found himself crumpled on the floor. But he knew enough by now to quickly get up again, an indication of submission, of willingness to accept more.

The Dark Lord strolled over to Goyle, "your turn," taking his seat again.

Goyle's eyes glinted, and his _crucio_ seemed longer and harder than the last. Draco was still twitching when it finally ended, and he nearly fell over as he tried to stand back up. Snickers arose from the circle around them.

Next came Crabbe, and Draco winced when he did not raise his wand, but spoke.

"Think you can threaten _my boy_? You worthless, spoiled, arrogant –" words failed him, and Draco wondered exactly what Vincent had told him, but then "_perverted -" _and Draco barely had time to register the implications of that last word before another round of agony overcame him.

When next he came to, he was lying on the ground. He quickly scrambled up, and vaguely wondered how much of his transgression the rest of the circle knew. Little, he suspected, but he couldn't be sure.

The Dark Lord turned to him and said, "It's seems you are gifted at potions like Severus, here" he said, his eyes moving to rest on Snape for a moment. Draco followed his eyes. Snape's face was unreadable, but as his eyes moved to Draco, he could see the hard, fierce look in his eyes that Draco had seen before, and it made him shiver.

The Dark Lord continued, "you have inspired me." Then he flicked his wand and the bound, gagged body of an elderly Muggle woman floated over from the back of the room.

He released the _leviosa_ and she dropped to the floor with a crunch and a whimper. He moved closer to release her gag, then handed Draco a flask. Draco understood, and offered it to the woman, who pursed her lips and shook her head violently, until Draco shakily got out his wand and _imperiused_ her into swallowing it.

The Dark Lord then unbound her and the group watched, captivated, as the surface of her skin bubbled, and changed. Gradually she shrank in height, then in girth. Her curly grey hair grew short and straight and turned blond, and her wrinkled skin stretched until it was youthful, taut and white. Her sagging breasts shrank and then disappeared entirely, and her spider-veined legs melted into thin, creamy, knobby-kneed stems.

When the transformation was complete, she had taken on the body of a twelve-year-old boy. A blond, twelve-year-old boy. And not just _any_ blond, twelve-year-old boy.

She was _Draco _exactlyas he had been in second year.

Draco felt queasy and wanted desperately to look away but he found he couldn't.

"Uncanny, isn't it?" came the cold, high voice of the Dark Lord. He looked up to see cruel red eyes watching him, face twisted in pleasure. "The follicles in the hair," he began to explain, turning to the circle in the same tone he had used to explain Snape's bone-cracking potion, "or any other sample, will preserve the state of the person at the time it is taken. This," he indicated the flask in Draco's stunned hand, "was taken from your room."

Draco felt a jolt of indignation that someone had been rifling through his belongings. That quickly gave way to fear on behalf of his Mother, and something like bitter gratitude that they hadn't used a hair from his three-year-old self. Or from his current self.

The Muggle-turned-Draco turned around disoriented, examining herself and her new, male, preteen body.

Draco was staring at her and so was everyone else in the room and Draco became aware that the atmosphere in the room had shifted palpably. Again his eyes sought out Snape, who stood behind him, his features unreadable.

Then he turned back to the Dark Lord, who waved him back into the crowd, as though dismissed, though whatever was to come next was clearly meant for his benefit. Draco bowed and stepped backward, aiming blindly and gratefully landing right next to Snape. They stood side by side, and Draco resisted the urge to look up at the older man. Suddenly he wished he hadn't been so belligerent.

But now the Dark Lord had handed the reigns to Aunt Bella, who smiled maliciously and walked up to the boy.

"Aw, is wittle Dwaco missing his mummy?" she crooned. Draco felt sick.

She flicked and flourished her wand at the boy's clothes and they shrank and transfigured into something resembling trousers and a shirt.

Then she pointed at his crotch, and a dark patch appeared, and slowly spread. Draco felt his face growing red as he watched his twelve-year-old self wetting his pants, a look of abject terror and humiliation marring his delicate features. Around the circle, Death Eaters howled and jeered, and Draco felt the burn of his blush up to his ears. A roiling, coiling hatred awakened in his stomach as he recalled the last time he'd been submitted to much the same humiliation. He watched the little trickle running out of the boy's pant-legs and forming a puddle on the floor at his feet. It was almost worse having to watch. Or rather, being watched while watching: he was painfully, acutely, aware that the hungry eyes around him were surveying him at least as often as his younger impersonator.

Crabbe and Goyle were next. Crabbe stripped the boy with a spell and Goyle slapped him across the face, leering at the pale, naked body. Draco tried to look away. He drew his eyes up to peer at the others in the circle. Most of them were greedily gazing at the pale form, but a handful were now boldly leering at Draco himself.

Draco realized with a shiver that the Dark Lord was one of them.

The message could not have been clearer. Whatever they planned to do would be horrible just to watch. But it was also a threat meant for Draco and everyone else in the room.

Crabbe walked up to the boy, wand in hand, and suddenly he was bound by the wrists and hanging from the ceiling, so that his feet barely reached the ground. Shook his wand out to the side and several leather tails, knotted at the ends, shot from the tip. He walked in a slow, oppressively close circle around the hanging boy, dragging the dangling whip-tails across the white flesh. He flipped his wand around and ran the end of it slowly bump by bump over the stretched ribcage, then spun the boy around and dragged it slowly, slowly, from the back of his neck all the way down, down, until it reached the crevice of his arse and paused, chuckling.

Then the whipping started. Broad welts appears across this back and legs. Crabbe was panting with exertion and was obliged to stop when the blood oozing from the wounds had managed to trickle all the way down his torso, down the backs of his legs, and was now dripping onto the floor.

The boy passed out twice but a _revivalo _brought him back to consciousness.

Then he was cut down and propped up on his knees and elbows, wrists still bound. Some sort of acid, probably, was thrown across the wounds and the boys screamed. The blood sizzled and disappeared, leaving the wounds raw and glistening but no longer dripping blood.

Goyle mounted him without any preparation. The boy's screams echoed in the dark room as the circle closed in. He pulled out bloody to a round of applause.

Crabbe followed, but not before repositioning the boy, now barely conscious again, so that he could stare Draco directly in the face as he thrust in and the boy burst into renewed screams.

Draco allowed his eyes to go unfocused. He knew he was probably shaking, but he couldn't do anything about it. His hands hung trembling at his sides, helpless to do anything to stop it, stop them, to save himself.

He nearly gasped when he felt Snape's strong fingers curling around his elbow, but as soon as he recognized the gesture – that same rough grasp by which Snape always pulled him around – he exhaled and leaned into the touch. Gradually he felt the solid ground beneath his feet. The boy – himself – was not he. She was a Muggle woman. This was all a mind-game, and Draco could withstand it, _would_ withstand it. He fought with the nausea, and the fear, but somehow he felt less alone.


	22. Loyal

_ryanunmole123:_ Thank you, I'm so glad you like it. And I totally understand, I read _everything_ on my iphone (yay for dark-contrast!) and I really appreciate that you took the time to comment. I'm glad you like my Draco, I'm trying to keep him as real as I can.

_The Dabbler: _Thank you for your criticism -I've gone back and re-written chap 20, because I agree that's I've left too much guesswork. And I really needed to stop putting off dealing with that darn cabinet. Honestly, I'm as bad as Draco! Meanwhile, I'm glad you liked my torture scene – I'm never sure how bad to let it get. After all, it still has to get worse as Draco continues to fail.

So, people, go back and read the new chapter 20 – hopefully Draco's intentions and psychology make more sense in that scene now.

Also **Warning:** this chapter concludes a scene which depicted torture and rape of a minor child.

**Chapter 22: Loyal**

When Crabbe pulled out, his eyes still focused on Draco, roaring cheers broke out. The boy, now fully unconscious again, was handed off to a particularly enthusiastic group that included Yaxley and Dolohov, and the circle broke up. Apparently this entire gathering had been for Draco's benefit, or all the other business had been attended to before he arrived. Draco was still standing, avoiding the greedy expressions in the faces around him. Snape remained at his elbow, for which he was unspeakably grateful.

A white hand beckoned Draco toward the Dark Lord's chair, where Crabbe and Goyle, still beaded with sweat and flecked with blood, stood leering at him. _Gods_, thought Draco._ They have children, for fuck's sake_.

Snape released his arm but mercifully decided to follow him, and stood just behind him as he approached and bowed down, eyes to the ground, praying to be released alive.

Then the Dark Lord reached out a cold hand and placed it under his chin, lifting his face to look into his eyes. Draco shivered under the cold red glare. For long minutes the red eyes gazed into his. Finally he was released, roughly, and the Dark Lord leaned back in his chair and turned to the two men standing there, looking self-important, and threw them a disdainful sneer. He began to speak quietly.

"You will instruct your boys to assist young Mr. Malfoy in his endeavours," he said, simply. Draco gaped and the two men looked like they might speak but the Dark Lord held up a long-fingered hand and any protest they might have offered died instantly. "He is my loyal servant, as are you. And he understands as well as you do, the price of disloyalty."

As if on cue, the little polyjuiced corpse floated over their heads to the back of the room, leaving a little trail of dripping blood in it's wake. Nagini slithered through their midst in pursuit. The body seemed to glow in the light of the blue flame until it had passed into the darkness of the far end of the room. A sickening thud told them it had dropped to the floor.

The Dark Lord waved them all away, and Snape led Draco quickly and quietly out of the room by his elbow and apparated them immediately back to Hogsmeade.

Draco trudged in dazed silence, led by Snape's guiding grip on his arm. He felt… numb. He was exhausted and shaky but strangely alert. His stomach tightened and twisted, and he felt the blood leaving his face and his hands, and knew the nausea was close to taking him.

But when he closed his eyes, he only saw the angry red lashes on that boy's body – his body. He saw the bloody, gaping hole left behind by Goyle's impaling member, and Crabbe's menacing leer. And the limp, bloody body of the boy, of Draco, used as discarded. When he tried to push the images away, they were replaced by the look of horror on Vincent's face as he fondled him cruelly, and that tear dropping down his cheek, and then he saw the look of terror in the Muggle man's face, the slice of a knife splitting open a soft belly, spilling the entrails of his dying dog. And then Karkaroff, his face twisted in agony, ribs jutting out at odd angles. Draco thought he could smell his own vomit from that night and suddenly he was retching and falling and he collapsed onto his knees somewhere between the gates and the castle, and threw up onto the cold, hard ground. He felt something cool, like a trickle of water, running down from the crown of his head and he realized that Snape had _disillusioned_ him. He knelt there trying to remain upright in front of his mess, spitting the acid out of his mouth, then he fell forward as the urge to vomit overcame him again, and he felt the slippery reddish-brown gunk running through his throat and over his tongue and out past his lips. His nose filled with it, and he coughed, and spat again. He was on his hands and knees in a horrible imitation of himself, of everything. It was too much. It was all too much.

Presently, he sat back onto his heels and Snape vanished the mess. He felt the cool tingle of a cleaning spell rushing through his mouth and up his nose, which burned in the sudden dryness. He could still smell the acid, but he couldn't taste it as much.

And then strong hands reached for his shoulders and pulled him up, and an arm wrapped around him, and he allowed himself to be led up the lawn, through the doors, and down, down, down into the familiar comfort of the dungeons.

Snape led them to his rooms. He was vaguely aware that his cloak was removed and he was deposited onto a couch, where he lay down. He was suddenly struck with a moment of déjà vu as he recalled strong arms and a long white beard depositing him on a couch months (it seemed like _years)_ ago. This time, Draco didn't even try to stay awake.

* * *

Draco woke to find himself still on the little couch in the little office. Snape's office. The fire was burning and a house-elf had apparently brought breakfast. He peered around the room but couldn't see anyone. As his senses cleared he became aware that the shower was running and with a jolt he realized Snape was in the shower. To imagine Snape doing something as mundane and human was bathing seemed strange to Draco in that moment. He sat up and tried to straighten his legs. He felt exhausted and starving, and he reached over to the little table and poured himself some tea (lots of milk, and a little sugar), and tried to wash out the foul taste caking the inside of his mouth.

Eventually, he heard the shower turn off, and ten minutes later Snape emerged, fully dressed in his high-collared black robes. He must spell the buttons, Draco thought absently.

"You survived the night," Snape said wryly, sitting on a chair beside him and helping himself to tea (lemon, no sugar).

Draco heard 'I was worried,' and responded "Thank you." He held Snape's eyes until the older man looked away and grunted, absently reaching for a piece of bacon on the tray.

Draco sipped his tea and nibbled a scone. They sat in relatively companionable silence until Snape rose and announced, "you should probably go."

Draco stood, nodding, and moved to leave. As he reached the door he looked back and saw Snape frowning into his cup of tea, apparently deep in thought. Draco wished for an absurd moment that he could talk to him. Truly talk to him. Tell him about his fears, his misgivings, his doubts. But… well… Snape might be willing to share his breakfast, but at the end of the day, he's still loyal to the Dark Lord, right? For all Draco knew, this whole protective act might be just that, an act, an assignment from the Dark Lord in order to keep tabs on him.

He wished that the suggestion sounded more absurd to him than it did. The thought left him feeling hollow.

Draco breathed deeply and steeled himself to climb into the Slytherin common room and face the others. How much, he wondered, had Vincent and Crabbe told their fathers, and how much did they know about what had happened last night?


	23. This

_ryanunmole123: _Duly noted. I'll try my best to fill out the scenes; I probably rely to much on my readers simply drawing on what they already know about Hogwarts, for example. I expect to go back over the whole project once it's finished, I'd your notes again when it's done about parts that need more work. As for length, I think 2.5 to 3k-words is probably the most I can produce in one sitting, so I'll try for that.

I aim to please!

**Chapter 23: This**

The political atmosphere among the Slytherins seemed to have grown darker overnight. Vincent and Greg sullenly ignored him. Blaise remained haughty but kept his distance. Nott seemed utterly out of his element, for once. The younger years kept their distance and the seventh years watched him appraisingly. Apparently, regardless of whatever details had filtered out, the reality of Draco's affiliation with the Dark Lord was now considered fact. Only Pansy seemed oblivious, though of course she was no such thing.

She slid in beside him at the breakfast table and gossiped amiably about Avery and Harper, sneered at Blaise, disguisedly insulted Greg, Vincent, and Nott, and threw a few veiled threats at Millie – all before her first cup of tea. In a moment of weakness Draco gazed at her fondly, and she smirked back at him as he sipped his pumpkin juice.

Potter caught his eyes with a questioning look and Draco remembered with a pang that he had been on his way up to the fifth floor last night before he'd been called away. He tried to express something like… well certainly not an apology, because Potter wasn't quite worth an _apology_, but maybe a shrug. Potter's brow seemed to relax at that, and he shrugged back. Whatever that was supposed to mean.

Pansy, meanwhile, curled her hand around Draco's knee and he jumped and looked at her. She winked at him. He rolled his eyes to hide a cringe. This was the price he had to pay, he decided. They did make a great power couple, after all.

Draco's Sunday dragged by in a swamp of essays he had put off and had finally retreated into the library to complete. He found himself a quiet corner in the back of the library, wedged between tall stacks of ancient, dusty books. The desks back there were poorly lit but it was blessedly quiet and politically neutral.

Between everything he was expected to do this year, classes had been taking a back seat too often, he reflected. He sat for long hours, the only sounds the soft whisper of turning pages and the scritch-scratch of quills on parchment. He barely noticed the time until Madame Pince's magically magnified voice awoke him from the depths of a paper for McGonagall to tell him it was five minutes to curfew. Without thinking, he packed his bag, pulled the strap gracefully over his shoulder, and strolled out down the hallway toward the tapestry that hid the access landing of the back stairwell on this floor. He climbed the stairs slowly, unsure what exactly he was expecting. All he knew is that the anxiety and impotence and pressure of everything was so great and he just wanted relief.

Potter was waiting for him when he reached the hallway, leaning against the wall next to the coat of arms. He looked when he heard Draco's steps, a pathetically hopeful expression on his face. Draco rolled his eyes, dropping his bag on the floor casually and slamming Potter back against the wall and crashing his mouth into Potter's.

They kissed furiously for a few urgent seconds until Potter broke away to whisper into Draco's neck, "Last night…"

Draco froze. Memories of the dark house and the little white corpse flooding back to him. _Damnit, Potter_. He had come here to forget, to erase, to drown it all away.

"Work," he muttered. An honest answer, Draco reflected bitterly. Potter nodded into his neck, but then continued,

"I was worried that, maybe…"

Draco pushed himself off the boy and looked him in the eyes. Potter looked away, blushing, and Draco realized with a jolt that he'd been worried Draco wouldn't come.

Something resembling the tingling thrill of power, but somehow warmer and softer, pushed its way to the surface and rolled gently into Draco's throat as he pressed his lips gently against Potter's. They kissed slowly and deliberately now. Potter relaxed against him and reached his arms out encircle Draco's neck, one hand lazily twirling his hair. With every passing second, Draco could felt the pressure of his fear, and anger, and shame, and helplessness, and constant, suffocating anxiety simply falling away from him. It was as though Potter somehow was coaxing everything out of him with his soft wet tongue, and banishing it with the gentle sway if his hips. Draco felt his head beginning to spin as they lost themselves in the soft, wet writhing of tongues and hands and silk.

* * *

After that night, Draco began to fall into a sort of routine with Potter. Abandoned classroom after lunch almost every day. Fifth floor hallway every few nights. They communicated by means of steamy but surreptitious eye-contact during meals in the Great Hall, followed by a nod, or an apologetic shake of the head. Somehow, even when Draco changed his mind, or wandered by on a whim, Potter found him, as though he had a trace on him. They were still mostly just making out, though at night they would allow themselves to get swept up in the heat of the exchange and usually ended up grinding against each other through their pyjamas until they both came.

"Have to… get to… class…" Potter was saying in between breathless kisses in the abandoned classroom after lunch one day.

"Fuck… class…" Draco growled, breaking away to kiss Potter's neck, making him groan and pull Draco closer against his body.

"After… _oh gods_… after dinner" Potter proposed, mid-moan, as Draco began to grind his hips against him.

"Can't… Quidditch…"

"Tonight, then… fifth floor…"

They rarely spoke except between feverish kisses, to plan a future meeting, or occasionally to beg-off a previously arranged one. They had stopped fighting by unspoken agreement, but maintained a steady level of public animosity though much of the edge had been dulled. This was largely due to a terrified unwillingness, at least on Draco's part, to piss Potter off enough that he might withhold, though Draco rarely admitted this to himself.

Unfortunately, this meant Draco was now sneaking around with Potter, and sneaking up to the Room of Requirement while lying to his accomplices about what he was doing in there, and blackmailing Borgin with a contrived threat for help with the cabinet, and covering for the many times he had already been obliged to sneak off campus with Snape, and trying to cover for the cabinet project by planning another attempt at Dumbledore's life with which to satisfy the Dark Lord, all without arousing Snape's suspicions or alienating his help.

It was a lot to keep track of, and Draco spent most of his days accompanied by a cloud of growing paranoia that one or another of his secrets was going to come tumbling out and everything would fall apart. It was all he could do to maintain his calm composure in public, and the effort was even greater because of the persistent drain of his_ imperius_ on Rosmerta. How many times had he wished he could _finite_ the damn curse… but he still needed her, so he had to endure.

Despite the terror Draco was forced to swallow every time he snuck back into his dorm room after meeting with Potter, he couldn't stop… or at least, he didn't want to stop. Not yet. Because everyone else wanted something from him, expected something from him, needed something from him.

Potter, of all people, seemed to expect next to nothing from Draco. If he failed to show up after lunch, Potter merely shrugged at him their next class. If he spontaneously showed up in the hallway unplanned, Potter somehow came and found him. They murmered, and kissed, and fumbled, but Potter never asked for more. And that was perfect for Draco.

Which is why, of course, it didn't last.

"Wait…. Malfoy…" Draco was fumbling with Potter's tie, but Potter held his hands to still them. Draco ignored him and began pressing a line of kisses along his collar-bone. "Malfoy, wait!"

"What?" Draco pulled back, exasperated.

"Uh… look, what…—" Potter stuttered, turning red under Draco's frowning gaze. "What…. what are we doing? I mean… what is this?" He asked, pointed back and forth between them to indicate whatever _this_ is.

"Fuck, Potter!" Draco exclaimed, taking a step back and looking at him incredulously.

"What?" Potter shot back defensively.

"What the fuck do you want me say?" Draco asked, running a nervous hand through his hair and sighing.

"I don't know," Potter answered quietly. Clearly he did know, but was unwilling to say. Draco groaned.

"Well neither do I. Fuck. Why… why do you have to even… why does it have to _be_ anything?" He asked before he could stop himself. _Gods! _Potter is a Gryffindor fucking girl.

"It doesn't…. it's just…" Potter sighed in obvious frustration, words failing him under pressure as usual. He ran his hands through his hair, blushing furiously and frowning.

Draco threw himself onto a nearby desk and scowled. Potter took a deep breath and pressed on,

"It's been weeks, Malfoy. _Weeks. _This isn't some random cop off, and you know it. We're meeting in secret –"

"We run into each oth-" Draco started to say dismissively.

"We're _planning_ to run into each other in secret," Potter cut him off with a roll of his eyes and an exasperated sigh. Draco grumbled and looked away, because Potter was right, damnit.

He shot back, "you want to do this in public?"

"No!" Potter answered quickly, and Draco's eyes snapped right back to his. He searched Potter's face carefully but he could not find any echo of _that look_ marring his features anywhere – he looked distraught, but not disgusted.

"Well then I don't see what the problem is, Potter," Draco said simply.

"There's no problem. I just… I just want to know what we're doing here!"

Draco smirked, then purred, "isn't it obvious?" but his lewdness fell flat when Potter's face changed suddenly. The flustered look that Draco had been expecting changed to something like disappointment, and Draco felt a pang of something like pain in his chest.

"Fuck it. Just… just forget it, Malfoy," Potter answered quietly.

Draco frowned and looked up into Potter's green eyes. He saw disappointment and doubt, could feel him pulling away, closing off… and Draco felt something in his chest tighten and a lump rising into his throat and he wanted to reach out, make promises, say anything.

But he couldn't find the words, and when Potter murmured something about needing to get to class, Draco just nodded, and watched Potter walk away without saying a word.

* * *

The next day after lunch, it was Potter who pulled Draco into the classroom. Draco peered into the dim light, unsurprised to find a nervous-looking Potter refusing to meet his eye.

"Look, Malfoy…" he started, running his hands through his hair and leaving it a wreck. But he didn't finish.

"Spit it out, Potter, I don't have all day," Draco finally said.

Finally Potter looked up at him, and his eyes were surprisingly red behind his glasses. Draco's first reaction was to scoff, but he held it back. If he pissed Potter off too much, he'd call it off, and even though Draco had no idea what in gods' names he was doing, he really didn't want it to end.

"I don't think I can do this anymore," Potter finally said, in a very quiet, resigned voice. Draco didn't know how to respond to that, which was frankly a rare feeling.

"Why?" He asked, in a tone of you're-obviously-making-a-stupid-decision.

"It's pointless and dangerous. And if it's completely meaningless to you, then –"

"I didn't say –" Draco interrupted, but he couldn't finish. Because _of course_ this thing with Potter is meaningless.

"You don't need to." Potter said, bitterly. Draco looked away but didn't answer. "This is stupid. We're risking too much for… for nothing." Draco could taste the bitterness in his own mouth with every word. "It would be one thing if… if… but we're just…" Potter sighed. "So lets just drop it." Potter looked at him with something like hope, but Draco didn't know what he was hoping for.

"Fine," he said, aware that he sounded bitter himself.

"Fine?"

"Yes. _Fuck._ You think I want to risk my life for a meaningless fling with Dumbledore's fucking lapdog?" Potter eyes widened and he stepped back.

"You think I like sneaking around with a fucking _Death Eater_?" he spat, and the words stung Draco unexpectedly.

They had never spoken like this, not in all this time, they have never actually stopped and spoken about this ridiculous insanity and obviously there was a good reason. There was too much between them, too much hatred, too many lies. And now Potter had accused him, albeit correctly, of being a Death Eater, and Draco's pride, already hanging by a thread by even being here, stopped him from denying it, as he knew he should. But he knew that if he didn't deny it, then it probably really would be over.

"Fuck you, Potter." Draco turned away, his voice a little more hoarse than he wanted.

"No thanks," Potter shot back, sneering.

"Fine!"

"FINE!" Potter roared, and without another word, Potter stormed out of the classroom, leaving a speechless and breathless Draco feeling suddenly… cold.


	24. The Study

_Killer Rabbit:_ Thank you so much for your comments, I really appreciate you taking the time. Good catch on the cloak, I'll go back and fix that. As for Snape and his feelings for Draco, I'm not entirely sure what's happening there. I wasn't expecting them to get so close, it's just happening that way. Draco is hard to resist. But I don't think Snape is aware of it yet, I think he's mostly just feeling protective so far. I planned to put in more SS/RL, but Draco and I have been distracted. I'll try to do better.

**Chapter 24: The Study**

Draco spent the rest of the day systematically ignoring Potter, and was only able to sleep after begging a sleeping potion off of Snape. After a night of lurid and disturbing dreams featuring Potter, Pansy, and an errant Quidditch broom handle, Draco woke up aroused and irritated.

Draco arrived at breakfast and slid in gracefully between Pansy, who stroked his leg in greeting, and Greg, who looked up with a blank expression on his face. Blaise huffed and made a few insinuating remarks about Draco's late-night visit to Professor Snape. Nott shifted uncomfortably and looked nervously at Vincent, whose expression remained unmoved as he gulped down huge spoonfuls of sugary cereal.

Harper, whose bargain with Draco over the Quidditch match two weeks ago required Draco to acknowledge him occasionally at meals in order to boost his status among the fifth years, glanced over at him hopefully. Draco caught his eyes and nodded. "Harper. Practice today?"

He and Harper exchanged a few casual words, then Draco turned back to his group, and Harper turned back to his friends, smirking.

Millie strolled in even later than Draco, a flushed-looking Vaisey in tow. My, but she has a thing for Quidditch players, Draco thought.

_Quidditch_.

It was Saturday. He wished he could go flying today – the weather was brisk and grey from what he could tell of the charmed ceiling above him – but he had not been on a broom apart from practice in ages. He sighed and sipped his pumpkin juice. No time.

Out of habit, he glanced up at the Gryffindor table, but of course it was mostly deserted, as was Hufflepuff. Apparently meals were rather haphazard affair on the weekends for them. The Ravenclaws were forming their usual Saturday study groups.

Of course most of Slytherin had already come down. Missing meals was potentially hazardous because you ran the risk of falling out of the loop. He gazed lazily back over to the Gryffindors. The little blond boy with the camera was chatting with his brother. The Mudblood was reading the paper and nibbling a croissant. She looked utterly relaxed despite the slight frown on her face and her eyes scanned the paper. _Must be nice_, he thought, before he heard himself, and scowled.

Draco turned back to his table and decided it was time to see if Crabbe and Goyle had really talked to their sons as the Dark Lord had instructed. Greg and Vincent had been grudgingly resuming their usual accompaniment over the last two weeks, but it was hard to tell if they were doing it in submission or merely out of habit. Draco had been so busy sneaking around with Potter he'd hardly noticed. Now that that… _distraction_... was out of the way, he figured he should get back to work.

Draco eyed them as he rose from the breakfast table and the two hulking boys followed him out of the Great Hall. Once back in the dorm, he handed them their polyjuice flasks, and they each took a dose without comment. This time, Draco didn't watch them transform, instead turning to his carefully arranged truck, displacing a few piled of folded clothes, and retrieving the books Borgin had sent him. He shrank them down to a fifth of their size and tucked them in his pocket.

Vincent grunted from behind him and he turned around to find two girls standing before him in decent-looking black robes. So, their fathers must have told them. Maybe even sent them robes. Draco nodded curtly and strode out of the dorm, the two girls tow.

As he walked back and forth in front of the bare patch of wall in the seventh floor corridor, Draco tried to think about the cabinet. Apparently, however, the Room required rather specific instructions, because instead of the heavy wooden door that he expected, a plain birch door with a small brass door handle appeared. He frowned, but opened it anyway, closing it with a click behind him.

Inside, he found a tiny, rather cosy, little study.

A skylight shone from the ceiling, presumably charmed like the ceiling in the Great Hall. The walls from floor to ceiling were lined with bookshelves. In the middle of the room stood a green velvet armchair in front of a birch drafting-table covered in what looked like bookends.

Upon closer inspection, however, he found that the bookends were actually… well, they looked like doll furniture. Little pairs of wardrobes in various designs, each no more than six inches tall.

Draco frowned at turned to the books on the shelves and began scanning the titles.

The assortment seemed rather eclectic – charms books, potions texts, communication and language spells, travel spells like the ones he'd been reading already. Then his eyes fell on a large section of books in the centre of one wall.

"_Peabody's Portal Repository_," he read aloud, pulling a large tome off of the shelf and settled at the desk to read.

Three hours later, Draco's wand started vibrating. Time to go before the polyjuice wore off. He flung the volume closed again and carried it back to the shelf, but then thought better of it. He could read without arousing suspicion, he reasoned. So he brought it with him, though not before promising aloud to the room that he'd return it, which made him feel rather foolish but he really did not want to alienate the only thing around that seemed to really want to help him.

* * *

That night, he drifted into another lurid dream, though this time Pansy and the broom were no where to be found…

_Potter was kissing him, touching him, nibbling his neck and pulling on his cock and pleading in his ear "take me, Draco, please… want you… in me…Draco… Draco…"_

"Draco?" whispered another voice. Draco's eyes shot open, only close again against the blindingly bright _lumos_ of someone's wand. He shielded his eyes. _Potter…?_ But then he felt small, smooth fingers on his cheek and smelled lavender and peered up to see pouting lips and short, black hair. _Pansy_. He watched as she shrugged off her robe to reveal a tight black tank top and lime green panties, and felt her warm weight on the bed as she slid in under the covers beside him.

"What time is it?" he asked hoarsely, looking for his alarm clock. The arrow was pointing helpfully at "too late to be awake on a school night."

"Don't worry, everyone's asleep." Then she started muttering incantations at the curtains on his bed, and when Draco raised an eyebrow, she explained, "silencing charms… and a couple locking wards."

"Pans, you do know there four other people in this room right now?"

"Hence the charms," she rolled her eyes, then smirked and snuggled closer, planting her mouth on his for a kiss that took Draco completely by surprise.

She was forceful, and passionate, and he liked that, but… well, it wasn't the same. Still, he reached up to tangle his fingers in her hair as she kissed him, and slid on top to straddle him. She started grinding against his erection (when did he get hard?) and it felt… well, it felt ok. Sort of… soft, though. Something was missing. His other hand slid up under he shirt to cup a breast… _hmm… this is supposed to be exciting_… he felt the gentle weight of her young breast in his cupped palm but wasn't really sure what to do with it. He slid a thumb over her nipple, then pinched, and she moaned into his mouth… well at least _she _likes it. Now she was tugging on his drawstrings to release his aching arousal and reaching for her wand next to his head. She muttered quietly, and suddenly he felt himself coated with something wet and cool… he broke the kiss to look at her, and she smiled wickedly, then pointed her wand at herself and muttered a protective charm.

And now she was tucking her panties out of the way and holding herself open with her fingers, and sliding him inside of her and Draco gasped and arched his back… _Oh! Oh this is worth it_… the hot wet pressure surrounding his cock made him dizzy and his hips began to rut upwards of their own volition. He could feel her tightening around him and moving with him. His hands hand stopped moving and she grabbed them both and held them down over his head, interlacing their fingers, and using them to balance her and she rode his cock. Draco closed his eyes and just tried to keep up and concentrate on not coming too soon. He wasn't sure what he should be doing for her… should he be touching her? And how?

For some reason, Draco found himself thinking that if she were Potter, it would all be easier. He'd just reach down and wrap his fingers around that hard length and tug in rhythm, run his thumb over the head of Potter's cock, sliding that sweet, sticky precome down, pulling and twisting, getting harder and faster as his hips pounded his cock up into that tight, hot arse, while Potter rode Draco's aching cock, gripping him with his whole body, begging for more _Draco, take me, please Draco harderfastermore _until he felt Potter's cock in his hand pulsing and hot cum spurting all over his chest and Draco's own climax was _thisclose_ and he would pound into that perfect, tight arse and _wait!_ _why am I thinking about Potter this is not helping! _Just as he was getting desperate he felt Pansy's hot breath beside his ear whispering,

"Do you want to come, Drake?"

"_GodsYes_!"

"Good," she purred, "because I want you to come for me, Draco… will you come for me?"

"Yes… Pot- Pansy… _gods, yes!_" And he felt himself exploding into her in three strong thrusts. She stilled as he released inside her, and rocked slowly until he was completely spent, before bending down to kiss him again, then lay her head on his chest. He could feel both of their hearts beating. Gradually, he felt himself softening and slipping out of her, and she peeled herself off of his sweaty chest to point with her wand and mutter a cleaning spell and Draco felt himself suddenly dry and cool beneath her.

"Mmmm…" he said with as much dignity as he could muster under the circumstances.

She smirked at him. "Not bad, Draco," she whispered, but before he could protest that lukewarm praise, she slid down off the bed, adjusting her panties again and reaching for her dropped robe.

"Why?" Draco asked, trying to read the expression in her eyes through the dim light of her wand.

"Don't you worry your head over it," she shrugged, and tussled his hair. Draco gave an affronted snort.

She was still smiling, and planted a chaste kiss on his lips, then held a finger to her swollen pink lips and slipped out of the curtains before he could say another word.

Draco lay in bed, feeling exposed and spent, and… confused. _What was that about? _Without knowing what Pansy was trying to get out of it… since sex didn't seem to be all she was after… Draco felt unacceptably vulnerable to her.

And what about the whole… _Potter_… thing? Maybe he was still hung up on Potter because he never actually got that far. That certaintly didn't make him _completely_ bent, since he obviously can still manage with Pansy.

And yet, there was the reality that when a hot and horny Pansy Parkinson had snuck into his bed in hardly anything and basically popped his cherry like every boy's fantasy, he'd been thinking about Potter. Well maybe it's just a lack of comparable experience. But Draco knew he hadn't been comparing. He'd been… _fantasizing_. And it had been _hot_.

_Fuck_.


	25. Bluffing

_NX-Loveless-XN: _Thanks for your comments. Don't worry, it won't stay all sad. Also, I'm glad you like how Draco is able to translate Snape into normal human conversation. I always figured that's what Dumbledore was able to do with Snape, read between the lines. As for Blaise – well this chapter will clear that up a bit, though you might not like it. Much though I'd like to, I just can't justify having four out of five boys in the same dorm turn out gay – it's just too unlikely. Three is already a bloody unlikely cooncidence.

**Chapter 25: Bluffing**

The next morning, Pansy behaved as though nothing had happened. She slid in beside him and stroked his leg, and promptly began tossing insults casually around the table. When he caught her eye over his pumpkin juice, she squeezed his leg he felt a shiver run down his spine, but instead of arousal he felt vaguely nauseas and put down his drink.

His eyes drifted across the room to Potter and his stomach lurched. Potter was watching them. He glared, and Potter looked hurt, which for some reason made Draco angry.

Draco spent the rest of his Sunday avoiding both Potter _and_ Pansy.

Draco had figured he'd feel different after sex. He did feel different, sort of, but not in a good way. At least he no longer had to worry about being a virgin. Not that Draco had been uninformed – he had poured over every one of the books in his parents restricted bookshelves and prided himself on being able by taunting his housemates with the superior extent and diversity of his knowledge. But as for actual experience… well it amounted to occasional blowjob from Pansy over the last few years, his frantic but rather tame snogging and frotting with Potter, and whatever just happened last night.

There was something absolutely terrifying about that kind of intimacy, and yet the intoxicating power of having someone at his mercy… it could be worth the risk. If there were no other payback, Draco would probably forego it entirely. He certainly had until… well, until Potter came along.

Of course, Pansy had rather reversed that power dynamic last night, and that was another reason why he really did not want to deal with her yet. The more he thought about it, the more he felt… dirty… about the whole thing. He couldn't help the frightening flashes of Mr. Crabbe's eyes as they peered into his, and of that little boy's body… his body…

If Pansy hadn't caught him so off guard last night… if he hadn't just been in the middle of a wet dream about Potter… he probably would never have…

Well… it's too late now.

And yet, Draco felt hollow, and cold.

So he decided to drag Greg and Vincent back up to the Room of Requirement and start playing around with some of the spells he'd found.

Draco was only able to avoid Pansy for a few days. She gave him his space, but eventually managed to corner him at his desk in the library where he was trying, and failing, to get through a paper on _Patrono-Dementerum_ theory for Snape.

She came up behind him and draped her arms over his shoulders and down his chest, her chin resting on the top of his hair. Then she leaned down to whisper in his ear,

"It's late, Drake, come to bed."

Her tone was just innocent enough, and just suggestive enough, to be open to interpretation, but Draco couldn't put this off forever. He intended to offer a compromise. Political allegiance for a public pairing, or something. He was prepared to threaten to expose her as distasteful or even promiscuous to get her to comply to a deal that excluded sex, but he hadn't quite figured out the wording yet. Still, this seemed like an opportune time…

"Look, Pans," he began, shaking her off to run his hand through his hair and trying to find the words.

"I know," she said, turning to face him and crossing her arms. An enigmatic expression flitted across her face before something more like impatient dismissal replaced it. She looked lovely, Draco admitted, wearing that haughty expression, her black bobbed hair curling around her chin, and pink lips drawn into a sneer. Lovely and terrifying.

"What?" he asked, trying to mask his confusion behind a tone of suspicion.

"I know you don't want to keep doing it. I don't really care one way or the other," she said simply.

"You don't…?" Draco began, slowly. He couldn't be sure if he was having the same conversation Pansy was having, but he hesitated to be more blunt.

"You weren't thinking about me Saturday night," she answered. It wasn't a question, it was a statement, and Draco didn't contradict her, because he just… couldn't. She shrugged, and continued, "I also know that you need something to offer Blaise to keep him from eviscerating you when whatever you are doing blows up in your face, as you seem to think it's about to do."

She was frighteningly dead on, of course, although Draco was unsure whether she meant his mission from the Dark Lord, or his attempts to find a way around it, or this suicidal _thing_ he had apparently developed for Potter. Possibly all three. The thought sent a cold shiver down his spine as he realized the potential danger he was in if he didn't give her what she wanted. Hopefully she was just bluffing.

"What's in it for you?" He asked, and she smirked.

"Blaise wants me," and answered, and Draco nodded for her to continue. "And I want him."

"Why not simply take him?" Draco asked.

She scoffed. "I want him to suffer for me. I want him to sacrifice for me. It assures loyalty."

_What a perfectly Slytherin foundation for a relationship_, Draco thought in admiration, and nodded again.

"Trust me," she whispered, and then planted a chaste kiss on his cheek and strolled off.

* * *

Draco's relief over the whole Pansy situation was short-lived. No sooner had he agreed did she begin to publically announce their new, fictional romance. They'd dated on an off for years before, and most people didn't seem to care, though Blaise was satisfyingly seething into his cornflakes and could barely contain him antipathy in Defense. He practically blew up his cauldron in Potions, and by lunch, had retreated behind a haughty glare and a biting tongue.

Draco smirked. Pansy smirked. They really did make a good couple. If only… well it didn't really matter now anyway.

His newly public pairing had another rather unexpected result. Potter, who had looked miserable the first few days after the non-break-up of their non-thing, was now openly watching Draco with an infuriating look of superiority that was driving Draco absolutely insane.

And Pansy only made it worse.

On Friday morning, day four of their officially public pairing, Draco and Pansy walked into breakfast holding hands, and when Draco caught Potter's eye, Potter had the audacity to roll his eyes. What is that supposed to mean? Draco made a show of touching Pansy's cheek to lean in and whisper something in her ear, and she smirked knowingly. And what did Potter do? He smirked. Potter never smirks, he doesn't even know how to smirk. Draco found this so unbelievably, unspeakably infuriating that he ignored that bastard for the rest of the meal.

Potions, unfortunately, did not go as well.

* * *

Twenty minutes into class and Potions was already a nightmare. Draco cast a harried glance around the room to see if the others were faring as poorly. He smirked when he saw that the Weasel had clearly done something terribly wrong judging by the smell coming off of his cauldron. Draco frowned into his cauldron and tried to ignore the stream of nonsense that Pansy was prattling at him under her breath between eyelash flutters and strokes of his hair. Draco finally shrugged her hand out of his hair for the third time, muttered something about talons, and got up to go into the adjoining supply room for a moment's peace.

Draco was standing at the far end of the walk-in closet lined from floor to ceiling with jars and boxes and satchels of potions supplies. He was looking for a suitably shaped harpy talon to replace the one Pansy had just crushed instead of flaking, but a change in the air made him suddenly tense up. Potter. He heard the soft rustled and was sure he could physically _feel_ Potter stepping closer to him and for a blind moment Draco thought to grip for his wand to ward off an attack. But Potter did not attack him. Or at least, not like that.

Instead, he just kept moving forward slowly… until he was just centimetres away from his slender back. Draco felt Potter's chin to hover just above his shoulder, and he turned so that his lips nearly brushed Draco's ear and whispered, "miss me yet?"

Draco shivered. The feel of Potter's hot breath against his neck, the heat coming off his body, and the surge of terror that someone might discover them, conspired to make Draco harder than he had been in days. He groaned and turned to seek out that hot, wet mouth, when he heard the last sound he wanted to hear: Pansy.

"Draco, darling, where are you?" Draco winced, and moved to go, casting Potter an apologetic look, but was surprised to see boldly undisguised hatred flittering across his face.

"It's not like that," Draco whispered for some reason. It's not like he had to justify himself to the jerk, anyway. Potter just shrugged.

"I don't care," Potter said coldly, and strolled out without a look back.

Fuck. _Fuck fuck fuck_. Draco adjusted his raging erection under his robes and steeled himself to return to battle. Clearly Potter had some kind of power over him. He just needed to get it out of his system, or find a way to compartmentalize it. If he didn't, he was going to go fucking insane.


	26. Loon

_TrinityLost: _Yay! I'm glad you liked it – it was the only way I could get some real action in since frankly I don't think the boys are ready just yet. Also, it's important for Draco to have both Pansy's calculated manipulation and the Dark Lord's threat of rape as a means of control to compare to the possibility of sex that's consensual, reciprocal, and meaningful. And the fact that when he slept with a girl he thought – hmm, something's missing. Pretty subtle, Draco. Also – please enjoy the beginning of how we are solving the cabinet problem.

_NX-Loveless-XN:_ I think Pansy uses sex to get what she wants, and she obviously realized that offering Draco sex was not an effective way to manipulate him, whereas a veiled threat might be.

**Chapter 27: Loon**

Dawn was breaking when as Draco and Snape trudged through the cold, snow covered streets of Hogsmeade back toward the school. Only one week of classes left, Draco thought, and for a brief moment he actually looked forward to going home and having Christmas. Then a rush of icey cold wind blew across his face, sweeping up sharps little shards of ice and driving them into his eyes. He paused to brush of his face and then looked down at the black leather gloves his father had given him last year, and with a pang he remembered that his Father wouldn't be there this year. They had never spent Christmas apart. It would seem so… empty… without him there. A wave of bitterness swept over him and he realized he was utterly exhausted.

They'd been summoned in the middle of dinner last night, and _thank gods_ they'd been able to leave right away. Actually, it had been a relatively dull night. Draco had been obliged to show up to watch a few public admonitions of other Death Eaters doing less than exemplary work, topped off by the torture of a Muggle who'd made the mistake of setting off one of the peripheral wards around the property and was being kept in the basement. All of that had been over by about one in the morning, though. Most of the others dispersed after that and Draco was sent into the hallway to wait for Snape, who was in conference with the Dark Lord and a couple other high-ranking followers. Draco reflected ruefully that his father would once have been in that room with them. Now Snape, Bella, Thicknesse and another man he didn't recognize were in there and his father's inadequate replacement was banished to the cold marble floor of the entrance hall to wait. And wait.

And wait.

Six hours later, Snape finally emerged, and silently tugged Draco to a standing position by his elbow and they disapparated on the spot.

And now they were walking in the bitter cold of the early morning, windswept streets still partially lit by street lanterns in the meagre morning light.

When they reached the gates, Snape stopped. Draco turned to ask him why, but Snape waved him off and turned back toward Hogsmeade without another word. Draco was too tired to worry about it, so he started trudging slowly along the edge of the Forbidden Forest, planning to cut across the grounds where it was a little less steep.

And that's when he heard them.

A thick, leathery sort of flapping and whooshing, with the high pitched whinny of a horse. Draco was suddenly wide awake, and began to slowly back away from the edge of the wood when he heard a light, airy female voice speaking in soft tones. He couldn't make out what she was saying, but she didn't sound alarmed. He looked around: the grounds were empty, no one was to be seen. The thin trail of smoke swirling out of the chimney of the half-breed's hovel was the only other sign of life.

Against his better judgement, Draco stepped a little closer into the forest. He could hear the voice now, and it sounded familiar, but he still couldn't place it. He followed it along a path a few more steps, looking back to ensure that he could the way back out, and then, around the edge of a massive tree trunk, he spotted her.

Loony Lovegood. _Figures,_ he thought. Who else would be in the forbidden forest at the crack of dawn?

She was standing in a clearing just ahead, holding out what looked like a chunk of bloody steak. Draco stared, transfixed, as one of those black, leathery horse-like creatures he'd seen pulling the carriages in August slowly approached her and snatched the gruesome offering out of her hand, gobbling it up rather like a bird than a horse. It whinnied and sort of clicked at her, and then she reached out and…. _gods_… she actually touched it. He'd thought they were graceful when they'd pulled his carriage but having seen this one eat a raw hunk of flesh, he was starting to feel a bit queasy.

A twig cracked underfoot, and Loony turned around and met his eyes with a look of mild amusement and, oddly, not a hint of surprise.

"Hello, Draco," she said, smiling mildly. Draco merely stood, staring at her, and at the leathery bat-winged horse beside her. She tilted her head to the side for a moment, and then said, "so you can see them, too?"

"Of course I can," he said dismissively.

"I saw my mother die," she said, in a bizarre _non sequitur_ that made Draco's eyebrows fly up.

"I'm sorry, what?" He asked, completely forgetting to throw in his usual sneer or to at least to feign indifference.

"Only people who have seen death can see thestrals," she explained conversationally, giving the creature another pat on the neck.

"Oh," he said. Somewhere in the back of his consciousness, Draco was sure he had known that, but he'd never seen them until this year because… well, because.

"You don't have to tell me about it," she said in lightly, "I find most people prefer not to talk about death."

_What a strange, strange girl_. Draco frowned at her and turned to leave, but she continued, "I think it's because you can't fix it."

"What?" Draco was too tired to be having this conversation with a crazy girl and bat-horse-of-death at seven in the fucking morning.

"You can't fix death. It makes them think about all the other things that simply can't be fixed. But sometimes, when something is broken, you have the chance to replace it with something even better."

Draco stared blankly at her for a few more minutes, unable to even summon the energy to roll his eyes, and then walked back out of the forest.

Ravenclaws are best avoided until after breakfast and a decent cup of tea.

**

* * *

**

Draco returned to Slytherin and hunted down Vaisey and bought a dose of pepperup potion from him, then tracked down Greg and Vincent. He was determined not to waste the day, despite his exhaustion.

When he got to the stretch of wall, he considered asking for the Room of Lost Things, but ultimately decided to ask for the little study. The little birch door appeared and he entered the study, carrying the copy of _Peabody's Repository_.

He sat at the desk and stared at the doll furniture. Maybe the Room was onto something. Maybe he could use them to simulate what was wrong with the cabinet. Unfortunately, he'd found a zillion ways to make a connection, but almost nothing about fixing a connection. So even if he could create a link using a _portus_ charm, he had no idea how to break it so resemble what was wrong with the Vanishing Cabinets, but less how to fix it again.

He pulled a pair of the miniature wardrobes toward him. They looked Chinese – the wood had been painted red and the tiny brass handles formed a circle where they met in the front.

He sighed, and flipped the page of the book and stared at the chapter entitled "Elementary Portus Charms."

Well he might as well see if he can even cast one of these.

After some experimentation (the Chinese cabinets had briefly turned green and sprouted daisies) he thought he might have figured it out.

Charms are a type of magic that travels like light, he reasoned. So he placed the two cabinets at an angle so that, if there were a third, they would form an equilateral triangle. He held his wand precisely where the third wall would be, and cast the charm, "_portus aperio_" and a little yellow light burst from his wand and travelled out first to the middle of the back surface of one cabinet, where it bounced directly to the other cabinet, and then back to his want, forming a perfect triangle. The yellow threads glowed for a few moments, then faded.

He took a deep breath, then set the pair on the desk back to back. Next he scooted them to be about two inches part. A reasonable distance for a first try, he thought.

He opened both of the little cabinets and wished he had something with which to test the connection. Instantly, a bright green apple appeared in front of him, and he chuckled. He picked it up and, holding it in his left hand, placed it in the little red cabinet, then scooted it back against the wall… except that there was no wall. He just kept scooting it further and further and suddenly… thump!... it rolled out of the little cabinet on the right.

_Whoa._

Then his wand started vibrating. He dashed out of the room, dismissed the girl/boys, and fairly ran to the library, grabbing a copy of his fifth year charms theory text book from a shelf before settling in at his little desk in the back stacks.

He made a list of all the pertinent Charms theory he could remember.

_Charms work on inanimate objects_

_To charm more than one object, all the objects have to be in close proximity and need to be charms at the same time. _

_You cannot add an object to charmed group, once the charm is cast._

He started flipping through the book, pausing to rub the headache that was emerging at his temples. He closed his eyes. Images of Pansy and Potter floating past him... and the nagging pull of his imperius on Rosmerta dulling his senses… that little bit of theory was barely on the surface… the overwhelming frustration of being unable to think, just _think_ clearly was driving him insane. And since the non-break-up of the non-thing between him and Potter there could be no chance for relief. It was enough to drive him over the edge. There was no way… absolutely no way… he'd be able to muster the mental energy he needed to make any commands of Rosmerta and he really needed her help with his next gesture for the Dark Lord. But,_ gods_, he could barely manage just having the drain of her mind and will on his own, even without telling her t do anything for him at all. It was too much. There had to be a better way.

He threw open his eyes when he heard a rustling nearby. _The Mudblood. Whose else?_

He turned back to his book as she shuffled off. Draco stared at the page in front of him. "Protean charms: a charm performed on more than one object, such that any changes made to one object will be reflected in the other charmed object."

He closed his eyes again and tried to think. Think. _Think. _He shrugged off his robes and absently began rubbing his left wrist with his thumb.

And then it hit him like a flash of lighting. Like a brick wall falling down around him. Like a bright, white flame in front of his eyes.

_How could he have been so stupid?_

He pulled out a handful of galleons out of his pocket, selected two, and set to work.

About an hour later, Draco stood alone in the freezing cold owlery, letter and money pouch in one hand, wand in the other. His letter, written specifically for the eyes of the aurors who had been detailed to read all the incoming and outgoing mail and scan for dark magic, read:

_My Dear Madame Rosmerta,_

_Kindly receive the attached payment of three galleons, fourteen sickles, and two knuts for a gift-wrapped bottle of your excellent house mead to be sent by return mail immediately. Please accept an additional galleon for your troubles._

_Many thanks,_

_P. Parkinson, Slytherin House_

He'd considered using his own name, but he figured Pansy owed him one. The practice of bribing outside vendors to provide alcohol to underage students was well-known and generally overlooked by everyone except, of course, McGonagall and Snape, and he was sure this letter would be no exception.

The charmed galleon, the one he'd be using, was in the purse with the others, completely inconspicuous to anyone other than Rosmerta, to whom it would respond.

He attached the pouch and the sealed letter to Vulcan, his Eagle Owl. He stood peering out of the closed window. His wand outstretched, he reached his mind and his will out, out, out over the frozen, snow-covered grounds, over the white-tipped trees, through the streets of Hogsmeade, into the Three Broomstick. He closed his eyes and envisioned himself standing in front of her, looking into her glassy eyes, and instructing her exactly what to do. _Keep the coin. Trust the coin. Keep it with you always. Draw upon the coin and do what it tells you to, because you love, you trust it, it is yours._

Then he pulled out his own coin, and inscribed the following directions:

_Poison the bottle and send it to me._

Then he bolted down to Slytherin to grab his potions supplies, and started climbing up to the sixth-floor bathroom. That Lovegood Loon isn't a Ravenclaw for nothing, reflected as he climbed. If he couldn't fix the old connection, he'd just have to build a new one. He started warding the bathroom and setting up his cauldron and supplies case. Time to start brewing the potion that would enable him to work on both cabinets simultaneously without having them in the same place to cast the charm.


	27. More

_The Dabbler: _Thank you! Yes, I feel like he's just plummeting down a well of bad choices. thank you

_NX-Loveless-XN:_ Glad you like my Luna, here's some more for you. I'm quite fond of her myself.

Happy Christmas! Here is my gift to you: 3.5k+ of angsty goodness for your reading pleasure. I might be able to get through Slughorn's party and update again tonight, too. Because I'm nice like that.

Hey, look, there's a comments button down there! Don't you want to leave me a comment for loyally updating even on Christmas?

**Chapter 27: More**

Draco left the beginning of his potion to simmer. It would require several more days to complete, and then he would probably have to take it home to figure what type of protean charm, precisely, he should use. Meanwhile, he would have to break into Snape's stores, something he was really, really not looking forward to, but there was simply no other way to get fertilized salamander's eggs this time of year. He supposed he could just ask, but Snape would be suspicious. And as desperately as he sometimes wished he could trust the man… and really, truly did trust him… he still couldn't tell him about the cabinet, because at the end of the day Snape is still loyal Death Eater.

That night Draco held court in the Slytherin common room. After about an hour, he managed to dismiss the attention long enough whisper to Pansy while the younger years chatted amongst themselves, and proposed to her his deal for Blaise, under the guise of seeking her advice.

"Musical chairs," he said, simply.

She frowned at him for a moment before a smirk appeared on her lips and a cruel laugh emitted from her delicate white throat. "I like it," she answers.

Draco nodded. "It secures him as second by no better, which benefits you, but preserves me. No matter what he says, or does, he'll always be a step below with just that one simple rule."

"It's a stroke of genius, Drake," she answered, stroking his hair and planting a soft kiss on his cheek. _Soon it would all be over_, he thought to himself.

* * *

The next morning after breakfast Draco returned to the sixth floor bathroom, took off the preservation spells on his potion and picked up where he'd left off. He was still labouring over the ridiculously fiddly potion, stirring and counting and chopping and measuring, when he felt one of his wards in the hallway go off. The building was so old that elementary wards really weren't that effective and he wouldn't have thought twice about it until he heard footsteps. Two sets of footsteps, coming from different directions. And then, voices. He cast a preservation spell on the potion and threw up a visual barrier to hide his workstation so that it appeared to be another broken stall, and went to stand by the door, which he opened just a crack in order see into the hall way. Just on the other side of the door stood Loony Lovegood and… _Potter_.

"You know, it's rather nice to be asked, even if I'm not the person you really want to be with," Lovegood remarked airily. Potter frowned.

"What do you mean? Of course I want to go with you. You'll make the whole evening much more… bearable."

"I suppose I am rather witty," she remarked matter-of-factly.

"Er, yeah. So you'll come, right?" Lovegood looked at Potter with a small, vaguely mournful smile.

"Did you already ask him, and he said no?" She asked, and Draco felt something coiling in his chest, and he strained his ears to listen.

"What? Who?" Potter asked. He was stammering and blushing.

"Draco Malfoy, of course," she answered simply, her tone completely devoid of anything except a sort of detached curiosity. Draco's heart was racing, and his closed his eyes, and he tried to prepare himself for what Potter would say next in order to clear his name.

"What makes you think…? why would I…?" Potter sputtered, but Lovegood simply raised an eyebrow and then Potter looked away sheepishly and asked, "how did you know?"

_That is a very good question_, Draco thought.

"Oh, it's rather obvious, really," she said vaguely.

"Well we're not… any more… Do you think anyone else has guessed?" Potter asked, sounding about as alarmed as Draco felt at the idea that they had been anything other than discrete.

"No, I don't suppose so. Sometimes it takes people a long time to see what's right in front of their noses, " she said, sagely.

"So… will you still come with me to the party?" Potter asked, and it suddenly dawned on Draco what they were talking about. The party. Goddamn Slughorn's Goddamn Christmas Party.

"Yes, Harry," she answered, smiling in a far-off sort of way. "It will almost be like a date."

"It _will_ be a date," Potter answered, somewhat lamely.

"Yes," said Lovegood, still dreamily. "But your heart belongs to another."

Potter seemed to choke a little, and quickly cut in, "No, Luna, it really wasn't like that at all. It was just…" but he left off.

"Just sex?" Lovegood offered in her usually calm, dispassionately curious tone. Potter blushed a deep crimson and she smiled at him.

"Not really... I mean, I didn't want it just be… and we never even … but yeah, it sort of was…" Potter managed to stutter out. Luna cocked her head to one side and looked at Potter for a moment, and then smiled.

"I haven't had sex, either. But I imagine it's quite pleasant." Potter shifted awkwardly and stared at his feet.

"Yeah, I wouldn't know," Potter muttered, his blush now rising to the tips of his ears. Draco smirked. Lovegood just smiled and patted Potter on the arm as he continued. "Anyway, it's over now. I wanted it to be… I don't know, _more_… but he didn't want that, so… he's with Pansy, and it's… it's over."

"See you Saturday, Harry," she said dreamily, and skipped off down the hall, apparently having decided that the conversation was over. Potter stood watching her go, a frown on his blushed face.

Behind the door to the warded bathroom, Draco leaned against the tiled wall and tried to control his breathing. In and out. In and out.

What, exactly, had Potter just said? Too much information was whirring through Draco's head. He felt a stab of predictable jealousy that Potter was going to Slughorn's party, a feeling which was bound up with Draco's political machinations in Slytherin and was necessarily going to prompt strong reactions.

And Potter was a virgin, he'd just learned that too, which made him smirk, though a little voice told reminded him that he had been a virgin until quite recently, too, though no one would have guessed it. He was surprised about Potter, though. Girls threw themselves at his feet all the time.

Draco frowned. That's not the most important part. He'd heard Potter say it… Potter still wanted him. Potter wanted more. More than just sex.

The thought was utterly terrifying.

* * *

Draco left lunch early that day and waited in the classroom, _their classroom_, scowling and pacing nervously in the darkness. He was pretty sure that this was an extremely bad idea and he would probably be ridiculed and/or hexed for even trying. He had just decided to leave and was reaching for the door when he heard a familiar, loping gait outside. He swung the door open and reached out to grab Potter and pull him into the darkness, closing the door behind them.

Potter stood peering into the dark, probably trying to adjust his eyes. Draco stood against a desk several feet away, and breathed into the silence and enjoyed being unseen for just a few moments. Finally, an impatient voice cut across the room.

"What do you want, Malfoy?" Potter asked, his tone neutral and impossible to read.

"Look…" Draco began, running a hand through his hair nervously and stepping forward a little. But he didn't know what to say... how to say it…

"Yes…?" Potter asked, and Draco thought he could hear a tone of amusement behind the blank expression, and that infuriated him so much he was tempted to punch Potter and just leave, right now, before he did exactly what Potter apparently thought he was going to do.

Instead, Draco sighed and muttered, "No one else can know."

"Don't worry, I'm not going to run tell Pansy," answered Potter bitterly. Draco blinked.

"What? Pansy? No, it's not like that," Draco said quickly, aware that he sounded pathetically defensive.

"Looks like it."

"Pansy… she and I… we're just friends." Potter grunted and Draco saw it was going to take a little more explanation. "Really. She just wants to make Zabini jealous. We're not… I mean we did, but it wasn't…" Draco cut off. He didn't know how to say what he needed to say. He decided to change the subject instead. "Are you…? I mean, I know you're taking Loveg-?" Draco started, trying to sound casual, but Potter cut in, laughing.

"Oh, gods no. Luna?" Then he finished more softly, "No, there's no one else. Not since… you." They both sighed, and looked away. Draco felt the _something_ in his chest coiling more tightly on that last word, and he could barely bring himself to look Potter in the face.

And then Harry went on, "And I don't really want to… with anyone else… anyway…"

"Oh." Draco answered, nodding. The _something_ in his chest was warming his cheeks and rising into his throat.

"Do you…?" Potter started, sounding unsure.

"What? No!" Draco answered a little too quickly. "I mean…" _Oh what did he have to lose?_ "No. I don't. I just want… _Ijustwantyou_…" he mumbled, turning away, sure that Potter would laugh at him, or tell him he was too late.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt warm, calloused fingers gently brushing his hand, pulling him to turn around to face him. He dared a look at Potter's eyes and saw that same look of hope he'd seen the last time they were in here, when they had called it off. Now Draco saw it, and understood what Potter had hoped for, and the lump in the throat threatened to burst.

There was a brief silence before Draco spoke again, "_No one_ can know."

"I know," Potter nodded solemnly, stepping closer to Draco and looking at him expectantly.

"So… we're… um… " Draco started, but he didn't know how to finish, and Potter was so close to him, and he hadn't really thought this far ahead, and the lump in the throat was threatening to suffocate him.

"Together?" Potter offered, sounding extremely unsure but absurdly hopeful. Draco wanted to roll his eyes and make snide remark about Gryffindors.

Instead, it came out as, "yeah. I guess so."

"Ok..." Potter seemed to think about that, nodding slowly. Then he continued more confidently, "Ok. So… we're together, and no one can know about it. Ok." Potter nodded again and looked relieved.

"Yeah," Draco answered, and somehow, the ground felt a little more solid now. Maybe there was something to be said for the clarity that Potter's simple mind seemed to crave. Potter smiled broadly back at him, and the _something_ in Draco's chest fluttered and he felt… light.

Potter stepped closer to him and Draco felt his lips parting and all he could see were Potter's bright red lips and they were suddenly very, very close –

Suddenly a cacophony of scraping and knocking and the pounding of feet outside in the hall told them that lunch had ended and classes were about to start. They looked at each other and Potter smiled apologetically, and withdrew his hand to grab his bag and go. Draco opened his mouth as though to speak, but the Potter turned around and pressed his lips gently against Draco's cheek and whispered, "tonight, fifth floor."

Draco released the breath he'd been holding and nodded, and Potter dashed out the door, leaving him alone in the darkness, smirking.

* * *

Potter was waiting for him when he arrived at the fifth floor hallway. He was pacing nervously in the shadow of the coat of arms. When he saw Draco, his face lit up and he took a few steps forward, then seemed to hesitate, looking unsure. Draco smirked and rolled his eyes, but stepped forward forcefully.

Potter back up against the wall and looked up at him through messy bangs, his lips slightly parted, a pathetic looking of hope in his green eyes. Draco smiled wickedly and prowled closer, and instantly he was pressed against Potter, who whimpered. Draco felt himself flooded with a sudden rush of pure lust. It had only been a week but it felt longer to him.

The memory of Pansy's clawing hands, the saccharine smell, the soft roundness, the pure floral femininity of her whole being was threatening to drown him and he pressed his cheek to Potter's chin, seeking out the rough stubble there, hands finding the sharp angles of his shoulders, the smooth plane of his chest.

Potter's hand reached up to the back of his neck and began threading his fingers through Draco's hair, and Draco growled, and pressed his lips to Potter's. Potter's mouth opened to him, and he drew his tongue along Potter's bottom lip, tugging it into his mouth to suck on his, then bite. Potter gasped and suddenly their tongues were wrestling and writhing together.

As though possessed, Draco growled again and pulled out of the kiss, grasping Potter roughly by the shoulders, and spinning him around to press him up against the wall. Instantly, the line of Draco's erection slid firmly into the groove of Potter's pyjama-clad arse.

"Oh_fuck_yes," Potter gasped and urgently began rubbing back against Draco. Draco thrust against the soft silk and felt the warmth of that tantalizing entrance, so close now.

He saw Potter reaching down to touch himself and swatted his hand away, grabbing both of his wrists and holding them firmly on the wall over his head. Potter gave a pathetic little whine that sent a shudder of liquid need down Draco's spine. With his free hand he reached around and placed his palm flat against Potter's hard stomach to brace himself as he slowly ground against that hot groove.

His cold fingers slipped under Potter's shirt to touch the hot skin underneath and Potter shivered. He allowed the tips of his fingers to tuck into the waistband of Potter's pyjama bottoms and waited, unsure how Potter would respond to the intrusion. Potter was breathing hard, sucking in his stomach and rising up on his tiptoes to slide Draco's hand closer. But Draco still didn't move and Potter finally released a breathless, "_please_."

Draco slipped his hand down and curled his fingers around the hard cock he found, marvelling at the velvety softness. Potter was already dripping with precome and Draco squeezed and ran his thumb over the head and spread the warm stickiness down as he began to stroke. He tried not think too hard about what he was doing… he'd never touched another boy like this, but it was amazingly easy, particularly at this angle. Anyway, Potter seemed to like it, he was fairly writhing in front him.

Draco began thrusting against the crevice of Potter's arse, only two thin layers of soft, soft silk separating him from that entrance he craved. He moved in rhythm with his hand, and Potter groaned, and leaned his head back to rest on Draco's shoulder and turned to breathe hot, desperate little moans into Draco's ear. Draco shivered and thrust more quickly, biting Potter's neck to stifle a moan. The pressure building in his groin was hard to resist, and Potter was now thrusting into his hand, and they were _soclose _that they didn't hear the approaching steps, the billowing robes, and shocked breath until...

… the sound of a cough woke both of them from the haze of lust and they leapt apart and spun around to see… Snape.

For several long, agonizing minutes, they stood there in silence while Snape stared at them, his face registering genuine shock for the first time Draco could remember. And also, something like betrayal and maybe even fear, which sent a pang of guilt shooting to Draco's gut.

"Why… how did… this," Snape swept his eyes disdainfully at the entire scene, "happen?" he asked, his lip curled.

"I… we… we…" Potter started.

"We were fighting," Draco offered, unsure what more to say. How to explain how years-long rivals could end up tangled in each other arms in a dark corridor?

"And then we… weren't… anymore…" Potter finished lamely, his blushing face turning positively red.

"Articulate as ever, Potter." Snape sneered, then turned to Draco. "Mr. Malfoy, perhaps you would care to enlighten me, or has Potter managed to rob you of that facility also, since you have clearly lost all judgement?"

"It just… happened." Draco shifted awkwardly, absolutely refusing to make eye contact with either Potter or Snape.

* * *

Severus rolled his eyes. _Teenagers. _All hormones and pent-up aggression, no surprise a fist-fight would turn into an accidental snog. Oh this was too good. He would be able to hold this one moment of humiliating weakness over both of them for the rest of their lives. Oh this was just too good.

Then Draco spoke up again, "_No one_ knows."

Severus started at those words. Does that mean… this wasn't the first time? This wasn't just some sort of embarrassing mistake, a freak accident of out-of-control hormones? Severus thought for a moment. They _had_ stopped fighting in class and in the hallways since that debacle in Minerva's class, but that was… _gods_… that was _ages_ ago.

"How long?" Severus asked slowly.

Potter glanced at Draco, who nodded imperceptibly. Then he took a deep breath and muttered, "on and off since the third week of term."

Severus exhaled a breath and tried not to sound impressed. This was positively suicidal of them, _gods… _children are such idiots.

"Why?" was all Severus could think to say, although he knew there would be no answer. The two boys just shifted on their feet, steadfastly refusing to look at each other. "Do you know how… utterly stupid… reckless… irresponsible… selfish… and idiotic this is? _You two_?" He said, pointedly looking at Potter, "_This year_?" he added, pointedly looking at Draco. "Are you _trying_ to make your lives as absolutely miserable as humanly possible? What are you _thinking_?" He sought out each boys eyes in turn, trying to convey to each of them their own private and abundant reasons why this was a very, very bad idea.

The boys just shrugged, and looked away.

"You have to stop," Severus declared. To his surprise, Draco nodded and Potter simply sighed.

"We tried," Potter said. "We can't."

Draco spoke up. "I can," he insisted, eliciting a shocked and hurt look from Potter. But he shot Potter a look that seemed to still him, and continued firmly, "I could stop... but I don't want to."

"Me neither," Potter whispered, mostly to Draco, who seemed to smile.

Severus looked back and forth between the Slytherin and the Gryffindor, the Death Eater and the Chosen One, and considered them in silence for a long time._ Gods. How in the world did this happen? And how long could they possibly keep this a secret?_

He sighed heavily, then spoke again in a measured tone filled with as much disdain as he could muster,

"Twenty points from Slytherin and Gryffindor for being out after curfew. Find a better corner, boys. Preferably someplace with a _door_. Potter, don't you have a cloak for this kind of thing?"

He relished the shocked expressions on their faces. Potter blushed even brighter and Draco simply gaped, both of them apparently too surprised to respond. Without another word, Severus swept away, black robes billowing behind him.


	28. Gatecrashing

_NX-Loveless-XN:_ Thank you! Yes Snape is fun to write, I really should throw him in more often. This chapter will also render him a little more human, too.

_aweebuoy:_ Many thanks!

_TrinityLost:_ As always, thank you for your comments. I was worried about fluff, too, but don't worry, Draco's so good at repressing, he'll find a way to talk himself out of admitting that he has actual feelings. Glad you're still liking the twists and turns, more of Draco's miserable Christmas Hols to come.

So, people, another 3.5k+ words _and_ a little action, because it's Christmas (for about three more hours where I am) and you were so nice and left me thank you notes. Forgive the typos, I was in a rush.

**Warning**: This chapter includes some rather graphic boy-on-boy stuff, and although I don't really see why one would need to be warned about that, it seems to be the thing to do.

**Chapter 28: Gate-crashing**

The last week of term flew by in flurry of papers and projects. It seemed that every professor Draco had was bent on squeezing out the very last drop of effort from their students before sending them off to their Christmas holidays with mounds of extra reading in preparation for the spring term.

Meanwhile, Draco had finally gone to Blaise with his proposal. On Monday night, once to common room had largely cleared, Blaise had begun to reflect aloud what Slughorn's party was probably going to be like. Draco made a casual remark about being obliged to be with Pansy – the burden of a relationship, he commiserated. Blaise merely shrugged. And then Draco took the plunge:

"I _might_ be willing to… tire… of her, for the right price."

He waited… Blaise eyed him suspiciously, then replaced his haughty mask of indifference. But ultimately he couldn't wait and broke down, asking,

"What sort of price?"

Draco sneered at him for a long moment, allowing Blaise to fantasize about all the absurd things that Draco might ask of him, and then finally answered,

"Your seat."

Blaise frowned, "what seat?"

"Yours," Draco answered.

"You mean, like my seat at dinner? Done."

"Oh no, no, Blaise. I mean every seat you ever have. Wherever you are sitting, if I want it, you give it up to me. It's that simple."

Blaise looked horrified, so Draco opted to remind him of all the other things he might have asked for, by phrasing them in terms of advantages of the 'musical chairs' option. "No political allegiance, no censorship, no future obligations beyond merely your seat." He paused to watch the boy thinking it over, clearly weighing the respective benefits of an affirmative or negative response. If he accepted, he'd always be second to Draco. No matter what they were doing, or where they were, Draco would always have to option of taking Blaise's seat in a silent but extremely public gesture of authority. It was a hefty price to pay, and Blaise was clearly calculating whether it was worth it.

Draco rose as if to leave, to put a little added pressure on him and to reinforce the impression that Draco didn't care as much as he did. Just as he was in the doorway towards the boys' dormitory, Blaise called out,

"No proxies."

Draco turned and raised an eyebrow at him, and Blaise continued, "no one else can take it, and you can't give it to anyone else, only you." Draco contemplated him briefly. Blaise was obviously willing to be second man to Draco, but no lesser, and by preventing Draco from giving his seat to someone else, he prevented Draco from demoting him to anything other than second. It was well-played. He nodded, and Blaise nodded curtly back, and Draco turned from the boys' dorm and went instead to the girls' dorm, to find Pansy.

Draco managed to sneak in to Snape's stores that same night, while Snape was out on rounds, and by Wednesday his potion was nearly finished. He spent nearly every spare minute in the sixth floor bathroom stirring and siphoning away on his ridiculously fiddly potion. The only exception was lunch, because he and Potter seemed to have fallen back into their earlier routine of meeting in the dark abandoned classroom.

As far as Draco could tell, nothing had really changed. They were meeting in secret again, making out, and pretty much never talking to each other except to plan to meet the next day, and of course, to bicker in class. It was the same as before, and that was a huge relief to Draco.

He'd not known what to expect from Potter, he'd only been thinking about getting away from the suffocating softness of Pansy to seek out Potter's rough, firmness. But he certainly didn't feel any differently than he had before. And the fluttering feeling he'd had when Potter had said 'together?' well Draco had decided it was a moment of absurd weakness that would not happen again. Ever. Not only did he not care, he could not care.

As far as Draco could tell, he didn't feel anything at all, apart from a strange coiling in his stomach and the occasionally overwhelming desire to throw Potter on the floor and… well, his fantasies always seemed to go considerably further than what they actually did together in that dark classroom. But there was something like a promise in Potter's desperate whimpers when Draco slid his hands over Potter's trousers and gripped the flesh of his arse or brushed his fingers against that warm crevice, or ran his teeth along his jutting collar bone, or, once, when Potter caught Draco's finger between his lips and drew it into his mouth to lick and nibble it gently before pulling it out to kiss him.

But whatever this _thing_ that he and Potter had, it certainly wasn't based on anything other than lust, of that Draco was sure. Whether Potter, possessed of typical Gryffindor idealism, chose to read more into it or not was irrelevant to Draco so long as he kept his mouth shut.

They hadn't met at night again since Snape caught them on Sunday night, and Draco had been wracking his brain for an alternative setting and for a way to suggest it without sounding too much like he wanted it, even though his nearly constant erection around Potter probably made that pretty obvious.

* * *

It wasn't until Friday morning at breakfast that Draco's owl Vulcan finally dropped off the heavy, gift-wrapped box from Rosmerta. Draco immediately stowed it in his bag and ran downstairs to deposit it in his trunk, which he locked and warded, before going to class. He couldn't be sure if the bottle was poisoned, because his connection with Rosmerta was now much less draining thanks to the coins. Apparently they had absorbed some of the energy of the connection and were sustaining it now. This meant, however, that Draco could not feel her obedience as directly. He would just have to assume it had worked.

After a day of classes in which no one paid attention and most of the professors seemed eager to end early, Draco went down to his room to prepare for the party.

He wasn't invited, of course. He'd tried to get an invitation but most of the girls in the Slug Club were terrified of him. Well, except the Mudblood, who simply hated him. And he didn't want a date, anyway, he just wanted a way to get the stupid bottle into the party. It was addressed to Dumbledore from Slughorn, and Draco was fully aware of how unlikely it was that that bottle would ever reach it's destination, much less be consumed by anyone. There was certainly a chance that Slughorn might drink it, which Draco wasn't particularly worried about one way or the other, although it was a pretty slim chance. He is a potions professor, after all, he'd be more likely to pick up on the poison than anybody. Well, except for Snape, of course.

But it represented a legitimate effort on his part, and one that he felt he could justify to the Dark Lord. He just needed a little more time. Surely a little more time is not too much to ask for?

Draco figured the party would be in full swing by about ten o'clock, so he set out in his dress robes (finely tailored black robes with a subtle silver threading on the cuff and hem, and mother of pearl buttons), bottle in hand, and walked up to Slughorn's quarters. Even from the stairwell, he could hear the music and laughter, and felt a surge of bitterness that he, Draco bloody Malfoy, was having to gate-crash. He stood in the hallway watching the door, and a wave of something else crashed over him, something which gave the bitterness a more painful edge. The rumble of gossiping, the chattering, the tinkle of glasses and occasional pop! of champagne bottles, and the soft trickle of music… it reminded him of… home.

There probably would be not Malfoy Christmas Ball this year, he reflected for the first time. How humiliating. Not for the first time, Draco reflected on the falling status of his family's reputation and found he had to swallow hard to regain his compusure. It was all so unfair. So completely, utterly unfair.

Immediately he began to watch as guests came and went, picking out the flaws and foibles that separated them, and the whole party, from the kind of affair a Malfoy would throw, or even attend. Clearly this was merely a pack of aspiring social climbers, not the sort with whom he should even want to associate.

That cheered him up, but only marginally.

He steeled himself to enter, but just as he was approaching the door, he felt a cold, grimy hand on his ear and was forcibly turned around to look at the hideous face of Argus Filch.

"Sneaking in, are you? Nasty little brat!"

"Get your hands off of me you filthy squib!" Draco demanded.

"Stealing, too, eh?" Filch leered, snatching the bottle out of Draco's hands and peering at the label. He probably can't even read, Draco sneered to himself.

Then suddenly he was being dragged through the door and into the party, where Filch handed off the bottle (to whom, Draco didn't see), and now all eyes were on him as awkward silence fell upon the guests and Filch called him a sneak and a liar and Slughorn frowned at him. Draco took a deep, deep breath and with every ounce of willpower refused to allow the utter humiliation of that moment to settle on him, opting instead for nonchalance,

"**Alright, so I was gate-crashing."**

In the end, Slughorn let him stay, though by then Draco was in absolutely no mood. He really needed to find that bottle, and could only hope that the label on it indicating it was meant for Dumbledore would prevent anyone from opening it at the party. He tried to look around for it, but before long Snape was at his elbow asking for a private word, and Draco felt himself being led away, back out of the party.

"What are you doing here?" Snape asked him once they were safety in a locked classroom across the hall.

"I just wanted to get into the party," Draco answered, but Snape glared at him and Draco knew Snape could tell he was prevaricating.

"Don't lie to me, Draco."

"I'm not-"

"You are. And you stole from me, and now you are lying to me."

Draco almost contradicted the accusation, but the words died in his mouth as he looked up into Snape's black eyes and saw something like pain flitting across them.

"Talk to me," Snape said. "Let me help you. Have you forgotten the vow your mother exacted of me? I took the Unbreakable Vow, Draco, I'm sworn to help you."

"And that's the only reason you are, isn't it?" Draco threw back at him, knowing it would hurt.

Snape's eyes were fierce but his expression was unreadable. "Mr. Malfoy," he began again, in a tone of professionalism that cut Draco too deeply, and he felt the frustration of his failure, of his guilt, and of the absolute and abject loneliness of this bloody mission threatening to drown him.

Draco interrupted, "No, you don't understand. You have _no_ _idea_ what is going on with me, you have no idea what this is like!" His pitch had risen slightly, and he was aware of how ridiculous he sounded and that it wasn't really Snape he was angry at, but unable to contain his frustration any longer.

Snape drew a deep breath and Draco braced himself for a typically eloquent and biting retort.

"I have no doubt that your adolescent delusions of originality have convinced you that you are the first bent boy with daddy-issues to get in way over his head with the Dark Lord, but let me I assure you, Mr. Malfoy, that you are not!" Snape roared, then turned his back to Draco, who was too shocked to speak.

Instead, Draco stormed out of the classroom, nearly knocking into something warm and invisible in the corridor outside. He spun around to glare at the invisible something which he assumed was Potter, because of course it was Potter, who the hell else could it fucking well be? But Draco was too upset to care, and just kept walking down the hallway, the sound of Potter's loping gait following behind him and slowly gaining on him. Suddenly there was a hand on his robes and he felt himself pulled sideways into another dark classroom.

Potter threw off his cloak, and they stood in the dark for a moment, Draco seething and Potter looking annoying nervous and worried.

"He's a git, don't listen to him," Potter said, as though he was trying to be comforting. Draco snorted and stalked across the dark room to glare at him.

"What would you know, Potter?" he spat harshly.

"He shouldn't have called you that," Potter answered firmly, stepping forward.

"What are you talking about?" Draco asked as disdainfully as possible to hide his trepidation.

Potter blushed for some reason, then replied, "I heard him. He called you a… a 'bent boy with daddy-issues.'"

"No…" Draco said slowly, "he was calling _himself_ that, he was saying that's how he first... that's not the point. Snape just _came out _to me. _Gods_, Potter, for all your Gryffindor claims at empathy, you are completely incapable of interpreting other people's words and actions according to _their _point of view."

"Wait, what?"

"Nevermind! Just go away, Potter, this is none of your business."

"It is my business if you're working for Voldemort," Potter said very seriously, and Draco winced at the name, but kept his face inscrutable.

"We can't talk about this."

"I think we have to," Potter said, a little more forcefully. Draco looked at him and knew in that moment that this would one day be the breaking point for them. If they ever spoke about it, everything would be over. There was no way to even talk _around_ the issue. If Potter knew...

"No, we don't," he said with a tone of finality.

"We can't avoid it forever," Potter said quietly.

Draco felt the impulse to say 'there is no 'we'' but he bit his tongue. If Potter needed the fantasy to justify the rest of it, fine. Draco opted instead for the only other way he'd found to get the boy to shut up.

In one swift movement he stepped up to Potter, whirled him around, and forcefully bent him over the nearest desk.

Potter gasped and struggled weakly, but when Draco kicked his legs apart and stepped forward to press against him, Potter sucked in a shocked little breath, and stilled.

Draco reached around to unbuckle Potter's trousers, and felt Potter's growing erection straining against the fabric. A few more fumbling attempts and he had Potter's trousers and pants around his ankles and he feasted his eyes for the first time on Potter's bare arse. He ran is fingers gently, teasingly, over the soft white flesh, and then in a flash of inspiration, he pulled back one hand and smacked him, hard. Potter gasped and whimpered slightly. A cruel smirk curved Draco's lips as he considered, briefly, walking away from him like this, or better yet, taking a picture.

Harry fucking Potter with his pants down. It was too good. And it was all for Draco. If he had known that Potter's stubborn, self-righteous, pig-headed arrogance could be overcome with a firm hand he would have tried this long ago.

He allowed his hands to roam across the soft skin, fingers drifting ever closer to the tempting crevice, and contemplated for a moment longer, before making up his mind. Last time he'd been this close (before Snape had interrupted them), he'd simply done what he would want done, and given Potter's reaction last time, he decided this was a reasonable approach.

With no more forethought than that, Draco flicked his wand inside his robes, muttering a cleaning spell that apparently caught Potter by surprise, because he gasped and turned around, looking rather alarmed.

Draco sneered at him and with a strong hand, forcefully turned Potter away and pressed him down, so that his face was flat on the desk, hands on either side. Then he gripped his's hips and pulled him backward away from the edge of the desk to make room for his erection.

And then... Draco knelt down.

His long fingers began kneading into Potter's soft bottom, slowly teasing it apart, opening him and exposing that untouched pink pucker. Draco felt himself growing harder just looking at it, and Potter was beginning to whine. Draco bent in to lick one of his own fingers, and allowed it to ghost across Potter's entrance, and watched the little ring of flesh twitched and contracted under his touch. Potter pleaded incoherently, his whole body shivering. All Draco could make out was a desperately needy "_please…_"

Draco took a breath, and inched his face closer, then exhaled a hot breath onto that sensitive little ring, and Potter moaned and tried to press back against him, but Draco held him firm. Pulling the two soft mounds of flesh as far apart as possible, Draco finally bent down and allowed the tip of his tongue to slide slowly up from Potter's smooth perineum until he reached the warm, wrinkled entrance, and Potter cried out, "_ohfuck yes please..." _Draco smirked. He began to lick in broad strokes, pressing but never breaching the tight little ring. Yet with every stroke, he felt Potter's muscles relaxing, felt him widening and opening to him.

His own erection was now begging for release, trapped under his dress robes, but he ignored it in favour of blowing out a soft puff of cool air, followed by circling the pointed tip of his tongue around Potter's entrance, getting ever closer and closer, until finally, he held his pointed tongue perfectly still and Potter pressed himself backward, squeezing around Draco's tongue.

At the same moment, Potter reached down to grasp his cock and began furiously stroking it, rocking back and forth onto Draco's outstretched tongue, and within a few seconds, Draco felt the muscles encircling him contract and ripple. In two more erratic strokes, Potter came with a quiet "gods... _Malfoy_."

Draco, whose jaw was now seriously tired out, was still on the floor when, much to Draco's surprise, Potter turned around and pulled him up by his robes to kiss him. He licked and sucked his lips, then drew Draco's tongue into his mouth as though he wanted to _taste himself_. At that delightfully dirty thought Draco's arousal was suddenly so heightened he could do little more than thrust his hand into his trousers and with three swift strokes he, too, exploded, groaning into Potter's warm, wet mouth.


	29. HogEx

_Killer Rabbit:_ Thank for your generous praise. I'm glad you're still enjoying it.

_NX-Loveless-XN_: Yeah, it's fun to write Draco's translation of Snape's attempts at human interaction, although I always sort of figured that Dumbledore understands him like that, too. And maybe Lupin, in my twisted universe.

_retrocirce_: Thank you! I hope to be able to keep it till it's finished.

So, a little more smut - because there won't be much chance for it once over the holidays.

**Warning/Enticement**: This chapter includes some rather graphic boy-on-boy stuff.

**Chapter 29: HogEx**

Draco woke up in a fog the next morning and realized he'd overslept and would have to rush to get his things packed in time for the Hogwarts Express.

He tossed everything into his usually very neat trunk, threw on his robes, ran his hands through his hair, and scowled at his reflection in the mirror. He looked… worn. Well, there was nothing for it. He hurriedly tied his tie and pocketed the flask with the potion that would hopefully hold a protean charm – his project for the holidays.

He strolled into breakfast as though he had every intention of being late, and immediately walked up to Blaise, who looked up as though prepared to move over with as little fuss as possible, but Draco merely walked past him around to the other side of the table and sat in his usual seat.

Much though he enjoyed annoying Blaise with their new arrangement, today he wanted a view of the Gryffindors. And specifically, of Potter.

Last night still burned vividly in his mind. Draco had surprised himself by how very erotic the experience had been for him. He'd never have believed he was likely to be especially generous – but he had felt so powerful, so in-control, last night. Potter's entire body had shuddered at his slightest touch. Potter had moaned and whimpered and called out his name. Just the thought of that tight ring twitching and opening under his touch was enough to make him hard again. He had already tossed off twice last night thinking about all the sordid things he still wanted to do.

It was almost enough to make him wish they weren't leaving on holiday, but the promise of his own, warm bed in his own, beautiful house, decorated for Christmas and filled with his favourite foods and mounds of gifts… he could wait for the rest of it.

He glanced across the great hall at Potter, who caught his eyes and immediately blushed bright red and squirmed in his seat. Draco smirked at him.

In rush of trunks and books and forgotten items, the students trooped down to the train station. Draco, Pansy, Blaise, Greg, Vincent, and Nott found one of the large luxury compartments in the back and immediately claimed it. They changed out of their school robes and Draco made sure to transfer the flask into the pockets of his robes. Draco listened to the cabin politics and sneered at Blaise and Pansy, who were entwined. But once they'd gone about halfway to London, Draco got restless and decided to go looking for Hufflepuffs to terrorize.

Not ten feet out of his compartment, he walked right into something warm and invisible, and gasped when he felt a hot breath in his ear and a strong hand on his crotch. Draco sneered but grabbed the hand and pulled it after him into an empty compartment – easier to find over the holidays when many of the students stay behind in the castle. He closed the door and locked it behind him and with a flick of his wand, dropped all the blinds and shutters until the little room was obscured from view and rather darker. But Potter didn't remove his cloak.

Draco leaned against the locked door and glared into the blank space where he knew Potter to be, listening to the rustling of fabric. He nearly jumped when he looked down and saw his belt opening and the tips of disembodied fingers unzipping his trousers and tucking down his pants to reveal his rapidly growing erection. He gasped as warm, callused fingers wrapped around him and squeezed. Suddenly, he felt lips against his, and he kissed back urgently, thrusting into the tight ring of Potter's hand, his own hands moving to grip Potter's hips.

But too soon, the kiss was withdrawn, and he shivered at the sound of rustling fabric and the whoosh of air that told him Potter had dropped to his knees. He closed his eyes and bit his hand to stifle a moan when suddenly his felt something warm and wet running a line up his shaft, and then he felt himself surrounded by hot wet heat and a felt tongue writhing and encircling his cock.

Draco realized that he wanted to see. He wanted to watch. He reached out and yanked the cloak off, revealing bright green eyes gazing up at him through messy bangs and red lips stretched around his swollen member, and a powerful shudder ran through him at the sight. He had expected to feel vulnerable like this but all he could feel was the abject pleasure and heat and urgency of Potter's mouth.

Potter began bobbing his head up and down, sucking in earnest now, and Draco reached out to bury his fist into that shock of messy brown hair. He found it surprisingly soft and fluffy. He threaded his fingers through it, allowing his fingernails to graze the scalp and earning his a moan from Potter that vibrated down the length of his cock. He was _soclose_, he barely noticed the slick fingers dancing around his sac and probing further back until Potter pressed tentatively against his entrance and the sudden thrill of that cold, wet touch shook through him. Draco felt his orgasm torn from his body at the same instant that a harsh, shooting pain ran through his left arm and he pumped jerkily into Potter's mouth, collapsing on the floor of the compartment and gripping his arm and trying to catch his breath.

Potter swallowed noisily and crouched down in front of him, looking annoyingly worried, but Draco couldn't really worry about him right now. He sat huddled on the floor leaning against the door and panting and gripping his arm as the throbbing pain grew to a crescendo and gradually fell away to a more nagging, but manageable sting.

Finally, he opened his eyes, aware that Potter was watching him.

"Are you…? Did I… hurt you?" Potter looked horrified and frightened, which made Draco furiously impatient.

"No, Potter," he answered. "You didn't. It was… quite adequate." In other words, _wow_, Draco thought, as he tucked himself away gingerly and closed his trousers. Potter looked doubtful, kneeling in front of him, his hands fiddling nervously.

Draco sighed in exasperation and pulled him in for a quick but firm kiss. Potter's lips were swollen and red, and Draco could taste himself in Potter's mouth – bitter but not unpleasant, he thought. He rose to stand, but faltered, and to his incredible annoyance, Potter reached out to help him. Draco shoved him off. He might let Potter suck him off, but help him stand up? That was too much for his pride to handle. And he needed to get out of there – or better yet, get Potter out of there, because he knew Potter was going to cotton on eventually. He might be slow, but he's not completely dense, Draco was willing to admit, though only to himself.

Indeed, Potter was now openly staring at Draco right hand, which still held his left forearm. Draco followed his eyes and released his hand immediately.

"He's calling you, isn't he?" Potter said, his tone a mixture of concern and revulsion.

Draco looked away. Potter had no proof. He'd never seen the Mark, Draco had never actually _said_ he was a Death Eater. But he'd never really denied it, either. Because Potter didn't deserve to be protected from the truth. Not the truth about others, or the truth about himself, the 'Chosen One,' who had just gotten down on his knees for a Death Eater.

Potter sighed and said, "You don't have to do this. Whatever he's threatening you with, you don't have to give in."

"No, I don't." Draco answered, sounding more bitter than he had intended. He looked up to see a look of incredulity and disgust in Potter's face that stung him unexpectedly. "Just… fuck off, Potter."

Potter didn't answer, but threw on his cloak and disappeared out the door, slamming it behind him. Draco winced, and sank heavily into the nearest seat. _Fuck_.

The rest of the ride passed in a haze of pain and disorientation, and Draco barely managed to keep his mask of grim determination in place long enough to find his mother and grip her arm and she apparated them back to the manor.

Draco couldn't remember the last time he was so happy to see Professor Snape standing in his foyer.

"Severus indicated that you would need to leave promptly," his mother said, her tone blank and impossible to read.

Snape nodded to her and she swept out of the room. Draco looked up expectantly, but there was something like fierce concern on Snape's face that made him unsure. Snape led him silently into the parlor and flicked his wands to close the blinds.

"Why…?" Draco asked, trying to put his thoughts into order to care about anything other than _going right now_. Snape simply stepped up to him and pointed his wand at Draco's temple, and Draco should probably have been more concerned about that, but he was beyond caring now.

Then Snape said, "Potter," and Draco stomach lurched as visions of their fumbling kisses, their secret meetings, their fights, Potter watching Draco, Draco watching Potter, Potter eating breakfast, Draco eating Potter, Potter on his knees – flooded to the front of his mind and were yanked away from him. He watched the swirling memories – silvery wisps – pulled by Snape's wand and guiding gently into a vial he held at the ready.

Draco didn't understand and wanted to ask, but Snape pre-empted him.

"The Dark Lord is a powerful _legimens_. If you want to survive this Summons, he cannot know."

Draco nodded, his mouth suddenly dry. He hadn't even thought about that. What would have if the Dark Lord knew? The thought was terrifying. Snape was watching him carefully, and at length he asked, slowly, "Is there anything else I need to remove?"

Draco thought about it. _Yes. The cabinet_. _Everything about the cabinet_. But he couldn't be sure he could really trust Snape not to expose him. Whatever reason for his sympathy about the whole Potter-fiasco, and Draco thought he now knew the reason for it, that surely would not extend so far that he would overlook an obvious plot to undermine his own mission.

"What if he finds out you helped me hide this?" Draco asked, although he was at that moment too disoriented to really know why he was asking… why he was probing Snape's loyalty.

"I'll tell him I extracted it for him to see," he answered simply, and Draco understood, though he didn't not know why this disappointed him. "Is there anything else?"

Draco shook his head, and Snape exhaled, then deposited the memories into his robes and led them to the side door. Draco felt the sucking squeeze of apparition followed by the flood of relief of having finally answered the summons.

Draco conjured his mask and entered the dark room to find the Dark Lord in conversation with only two or three others, including his Aunt Bella. Snape walked up to announce their arrival, but Draco was not asked to approach, and so he waited by the door. Gradually more and more Death Eaters arrived, until a circle had formed. The tension was palpable, and Draco's mouth was suddenly dry and his hands were sweaty. He took deep, calming breaths as he joined the circle, hoping not be called out, but knowing it was inevitable.

The Dark Lord made him wait. Two or three others were called first, and each was ridiculed and punished in turn. Finally, he heard the high, cold voice call him and he stepped forward and looked into cold, red eyes.

"Draco Malfoy, you have not succeeded in your task."

"My Lord, I have tried…" Draco began, sweeping off his mask and fully expecting the burning slice of his throat and the flood of blood into his mouth, but it didn't come.

Instead, he felt himself dropping to his knees as images of his semester flooded past him – the letters, the threats, the necklace, the polyjuice, the coins, the poisoned mead, the party, the fight with Snape, and then – _no! , _Draco thought, as the image of the flask in his pocket floated to the surface. As soon as he felt the Dark Lord's mind retreating out his own, he felt the flask in his pocket flying away from him and he looked up to see it plucked delicately out of the air by a long-fingered white hand.


	30. Voodoo

_The Dabbler:_ Glad you liked it! Draco is full of surprises, is he not?

A little taste of Snupin, mostly to reveal Snape's position in the whole whom-to-trust business between him and Draco. But also for the smut. Sorry - it's been pretty smutty lately, hasn't it? I just don't know what's gotten into me! :)

**Warning:** This chapter includes torture and some boy-on-boy stuff, but not too graphic.

**Chapter 30: Voodoo**

Draco, still on his knees, watched as the cold fingers pried the stopper out of the top of the bottle. He stole a quick glance at Snape, who was beside the Dark Lord's chair, but his face was inscrutable. Cold white hands passed the flask under a flattened, reptilian nose, and then red eyes looked up and met his, and Draco's stomach lurched and he felt all the blood disappearing from his face and his hands.

A strange smile twisted the Dark Lord's face, revealing the edge of yellowed canines. He stood, and Draco cowered, closing his eyes and praying quietly for something, anything.

But the Dark Lord didn't move toward him. Instead he raised his wand and muttered a few words over the flask, and then turned to the circle. In the tone of a professor teaching a class, he began to speak.

"Protean charms are one of a special class of charms that can be transferred to a potion. The requisite potion is quite tricky, though our youngest member seems to have quite the gift for it, does he not, Severus?"

Snape met the Dark Lord's gaze and Draco feel the energy crackling between them and suspected that Snape was fighting to keep his mind closed.

The Dark Lord quirked his head to the side, still looking at Snape, and then turned away. "I wonder if that is all you share with your young protege." Draco felt heat rising into his face and saw that Snape's face looked considerably paler than it had been, but his mask of indifference remained in place.

The Dark Lord turned again to face the circle and resumed his lecture, "this particular brand of magic comes to the Caribbean from West Africa, did you know? Yes, a potion like this one here enables sympathetic magic: magical transference from one object to another, or from an object to a person. Shall we have a demonstration?"

Murmured approval and nodding heads confirmed this, and the Dark Lord smiled cruelly. Then he called for one of the muggles, and someone brought up a scared-looking young woman who might have been in her twenties, and led her into the circle. Her hair was dishevelled and her face was filthy. Draco could see dried blood running down her legs below a ragged dress. Her blue veins showed through white hands and bare feet, and she was shivering violently. _She must be freezing_, Draco thought before he could stop himself.

He turned his attention back to the Dark Lord, who had transfigured the stopper of the flask into a little wooden… doll? He held it up for his followers to admire, and then stalked over to Draco and dropped it into his lap. Draco grasped the little wooden doll, and slowly stood. In front of him, growing out of the floor, a basin rose and stood on a pedestal at waist height. A cold white hand tipped the contents of his precious potion into the bowl, where it swirled in iridescent pinks and oranges. Draco knew what he must do. He dropped the doll in, and a flash of orange light shot out of the bowl, before it floated back out and landed into his outstretched hand.

The Dark Lord, stood on the other side of the basin watching him intently – the eerie pinkish hue on his skin made him almost human looking, and he smiled without his teeth. Draco stood staring at him, transfixed.

The Dark Lord turned and summoned the woman, then drew his wand across the surface of the liquid and then in three broad slashes, it splashed directly on her, sizzling her clothes away until they disappeared. Then the potion began to spread out, trickling down her arms and legs and up over her shoulder and creeping in a reverse drip up her slender neck and over her chin until it covered every inch of her now fully-exposed skin.

He stepped back from the emptied basin and it sank back into the floor whence it came. Draco held the little doll in his hands and understood like a kick to the stomach what he would have to do.

Red eyes turned to him, and held the doll out, and knelt again, bowing his head, and looking up through thick eyelashes in perfect submission.

"What shall I do, my Lord?"

A thoughtful look crossed his cold, white face, and he turned to Snape, and said,

"Severus, a quill."

Snape withdrew of black-feathered quill from his robes and presented it, and the Dark Lord tapped it with his wand twice, then held it to Draco, saying, "play."

With slightly shaky hands Draco took the quill and pressed the tip into the wood near the upper right shoulder. The quill was self inking, he found, but the ink was red. Began to write _Property of the Revolu—_ when he heard the whimpering coming from the woman standing behind him. He turned to her, but could see nothing wrong with her. She stood covering herself with her hands and shivering, but clearly to confounded to move or resist at all. He turned back to his writing, wondering how the meaning would manifest on her, when her heard gasps from the circle behind him. He gave the Dark Lord a curious look, and received a leer in return. So he walked around to see what they were gasping at and - he felt his stomach turn. On the woman's back, exactly where he'd written it on the doll, were the words _Property of the Revolu-,_ in cuts that were now dripping blood.

How utterly horrific and… _brilliant_… Draco thought, his fingers tingling witht he possibilities. Imagine what you could inscribe on the bodies of hated classmates. He envisioned Cho Chang with the word "whore" across her forehead. Quickly, he finished his phrase, and turned to the Dark Lord, who took from him the doll and quill, and dismissed him to return to his place in the circle. The cold white hands delivered the doll to Avery next.

Apparently Draco's idea of a fun way to play with sympathetic magic paled in comparison to the creativity of his fellow Death Eaters. Avery removed several fingers and toes with a pocketknife. Bellatrix yanked her hair out in large fistful, leaving bloody scalp behind. Dolohov drove his wand into the doll, and the woman who mirrored her screamed as her organs were punctured. Someone gouged an eye out.

Draco couldn't watch. He looked down at his own hands, stained with the ink he now realised had been her blood. He could already feel the nausea threatening to overcome him and his hands and feet were numb. He sought out Snape's eyes, and found him watching the woman with a look of pure loathing on his face. Suddenly, the doll was thrust into Snape hands and he sneered at the wreck that was her human counterpart. A flick of his wand and a flash of green, and the woman lay dead at his feet.

Several voiced rose in disappointment but the Dark Lord simply chuckled, and they were dismissed.

When Snape deposited him on the hard marble tiles of his foyer, Draco swayed and finally collapsed in a heap on the floor. Snape moved to grasp his elbow but Draco shrugged him off, and Snape growled something like "ungrateful brat," and whirled around, disapparating in a quiet _pop!_ and taking Draco's removed memories with him.

But Draco couldn't care. It was late now, and he was starving, and he'd barely escaped a worse fate. As he raised his hands to his wipe to rub his eyes he saw that they were still covered in blood. He shuddered, and wished Snape had taken this memory with him, too.

He dragged himself up the stairs and into his room, where he promptly vomited into the toilet and then stood under a scalding hot shower for over an hour before crawling into his bed, before sleep finally claimed him.

* * *

The week leading up to Christmas, Draco occupied himself in the kitchens. The Malfoy Manor kitchens are extensive and can serve several hundred, but during times when occupancy is low, whole rooms are closed off. It was in one of these rooms that the house-elves had helped him set up his potions equipment, and he began to brew a second batch of his potion. At least he knew it would hold the charm, he reflected bitterly.

Snape arrived three days in and after posing several questions to which Draco offered no conclusive answers, he threw the vial of Draco's memories at him and insinuated that he had, of course, watched every single one of them. Draco felt a blush creeping up his neck and remarked on the sorry state of Snape's personal life, but Snape merely sneered and left without another word.

_Charming as ever_, Draco thought to himself. He carried the flask carefully up to his room and lay down on the bed. He knew what the memories contained. He knew their contents as facts. Facts like: Potter swallows. But he could find no sensory information, no sequences, no narratives, no evidence for any of these known facts. He could not remember what had been taken from him, only that it would prove the things he knew to be true, but could not recall. Nor could he remember how felt about them. He knew he and Potter were involved now, but he had no idea how he felt about it, or how he'd felt about it at the time. It was a strange state to be in: not obliviated, yet still memoryless.

With nervous fingers he pried open the lid and used his wand to draw out the fine silvery filaments. He pressed the tip of his wand to his temple, and in rush of light he felt the memories flashing in front of him and pulsing through him, in a non-sequential chaos of sound and taste and touch:

_Draco is in the fifth floor corridor, and Potter's fingers are under his chin, and Draco is looking up into eyes that are green, not red, and shivering, and then they are kissing, tongues writhing and fingers twisting in silken fabric, and now they are fighting, and Potter's nose is broken, and now they are crushed against each other in a dark class room, now his hands are in Potter's hair and Potter's mouth is on his cock and now Potter is up against the wall and Draco spins him around and grasps his cock and suddenly Snape appears. And now Potter is eyeing him across the breakfast table. Now Pansy is riding him in Draco's eyes are closed as he imagines Potter's cock pulsing in his hand, and now Draco is on his knees, his tongue teasing that delicious hole, listening to Potter whine and squirm, and now they are in the dark classroom, and it's lunch time, and Potter yells, "you wanted me to" and for some reason Draco kisses him, and it's the first time, and it's every time, and it's perfectly terrifying._

A rush of emotions flooded him, as the images continued to whir around in his head. So much anger, and frustration, and fear – the overwhelming, suffocating fear around everything he had done, every bad thing and every good thing – and the drowning relief of Potter's warm lips and the horrifying shame of his desire and the guilt, the guilt and bitterness and indignation of Potter's accusations and Snape's solicitous concern, the terror of that dark room and the terror of Potter's softness and the shame, the suffocating shame that ought to drown out the arousal but only heightened it. It was all too much. He closed his eyes again and rolled over, wiping away the single, angry tear that streaked his cheek, and tried desperately to sleep, but sleep was slow to find him.

* * *

Severus had planned to spend his Christmas Holidays the way he usually did, over a bottle of whiskey in front of a fire in his rooms at Hogwarts. When he was a student, he had always opted to stay at school over the holidays, and he was a creature of habit. Besides, the Muggle light displays at Spinner's End this time of year were invariably dreadful. But naturally, his plans were ruined by the bloody wolf, who turned up at the door to his rooms on Christmas night with a bottle of whiskey wrapped in an obnoxiously festive red bow.

"Lupin, what an unpleasant surprise."

"Happy Christmas, Severus," the wolf said, rolling his eyes and boldly inviting himself in. Lupin sat down on Severus' couch and summoned two of Severus' glasses, opened the bottle, and began to pour them each a generous serving.

"I see you still know your way around my rooms."

"Not much has changed," Lupin answered quietly, smiling over his glass. Severus snorted but took the glass offered him and drank. It burned and warmed him. Maybe the wolf can stay. At least until the bottle's empty.

They sat side by side companionable silence on the little couch in front of Severus' fire place for a long time. At long last, Lupin spoke.

"What are you going to do about the Draco Malfoy?"

Severus paused, then answered carefully, "I'm not sure."

"Harry's convinced he's on a mission for You-Know-Who and he thinks you're helping him."

Severus snorted, "Potter is a child."

"Not that much of a child anymore, and neither is the Malfoy boy."

Severus considered how much he could tell Lupin, to explain the conflict without explaining the details. At length, he answered, "I think he mistrusts me because he believes I am loyal to the Dark Lord, and I can't reveal myself to him because I can't be sure how loyal he is."

"You want to save him."

"No. I want to do my duty to the Order," Severus shot back rather more defensively than he had wanted to.

They sat in silence for a few more minutes, sipping the whiskey and staring at the fire.

"Harry asked about Tonks' new _patronus_," Lupin brought up conversationally. "He thought it was because of… Sirius…"

Severus nodded. Potter was oblivious as usual. He bit his tongue to keep from uttering any of the usual words that followed a mention of Black - 'mutt,' 'mongrel,' and 'lapdog' being some of the kinder ones.

Instead he took a rather long drink and focused on the current, living object of his loathing. "She's rather smitten, I take it. You should take her up on the offer, Lupin. You could breed yourself a whole pack with someone as young and fertile as she."

"Shut up," came the tired reply. "If I wanted to, I already would have. I'm too old for her."

"You do look rather worse for the wear. Tell me, do the wild packs really spend the days before the full moon rutting?"

"Hardly," Lupin cast him a wan smile.

In the firelight, the greying hair around his ears was tinted gold, like his eyes. Severus allowed himself a brief moment to gaze at the man through the glow of the firelight. After all these years, and still…

He stiffened when he felt a hand come down to rest on his knee. Looking up, he met Lupin's gaze and saw an absurd hopefulness that made him want to roll his eyes, or scoff. He looked away instead, but the insufferable wolf moved himself closer, and suddenly the room felt entirely too warm and the smell of grass and earth on the man beside him was threatening to overwhelm him. He tried to push it from his mind.

"Severus," a quiet voice called him back.

He steeled himself and returned the gaze to find yellow eyes burning with desire and suddenly Severus realized the absurdity of his feigned resistance. Months, literally _months_ of prodding and teasing and torturing the man out of his grief over the fucking lapdog, and needling him incessantly about his colour-changing fangirl, and finally Lupin had figured it out and come to him, a willing surrender. A smirk twisted itself across his lips, which widened when Lupin's face registered just the slightest tinge of trepidation.

Severus swiftly closed the gap between them and pressed his lips against Lupin's, and Lupin gasped, opening his mouth to Severus' probing tongue. Their exchange grew faster and more frantic as they stood, mouths attached, and stumbled into the bedroom, fumbling with each other's belts and zippers until finally falling onto the bed, both naked from the waist down. Severus summoned a jar and began to gently, carefully prepare him, the way he needed it. The wolf looked up with grateful eyes, and when Severus slid into him, he only slightly winced.

"A little… further… over…" he gasped when Severus began to move, and Severus understood.

He began to slowly pivot his hips in a counter-clockwise motion so that his cock would brush against that bundle of nerves without driving over the scarred tissue just beside it, the remnant of a brutal rape during the first war, which never seemed to fully heal. Lupin hardly ever bottomed for anyone, because he hated to explain. Hated to even remember it, and Severus understood that all too well.

He whispered, "I… remember…" and hoped that the wolf would hear what he meant: 'I'm sorry,' and 'I want to do it perfectly for you,' and 'I never want you to hurt again.'

Yellow eyes looked up at him and moist lips whispered a soft "I know…" and Severus knew that the wolf had heard every word. He began to driving more forcefully, never losing the circular motion even though the disproportionate pressure on his right leg was starting to feel like he'd pinched a nerve, but he ignored the pain and focused on the thrill of Lupin's increasingly incoherent groans and whispers of "oh _gods _yes, please _Severus _please oh _fuck_…"

At exactly the right moment, Severus reached down to stroke Lupin's hard shaft. They came together, the way the used to, years ago, and Severus collapsed into an undignified heap on top of Lupin, his eyes closing to the feel of fingers threading through his dirty black hair.


	31. Guests

_The Dabbler_: Yikes! I'll try not to be so sloppy. I anticipate going back over all the chapters when I'm done, because by then I'll have enough distance to notice the mistakes. And I'm glad you like the smut - more to come.

_Killer Rabbit: _Rest assured, reviews are never annoying, and always appreciated. they totally make my day, seriously. And I believe you'd mentioned you wanted more Snupin, so I'm glad you liked it.

_ryanunmole123:_ Why thank you. More to come, I promise.

**Chapter 31: Guests**

Congratulating himself on his perfect timing, Draco wiped his hands on his apron and stepped back from the cauldron. Perfect. With the help of the ever-resourceful Malfoy house-elves, he'd managed to procure all the ingredients and prepare a second batch of his potion, all by Christmas Eve. He closed his eyes and inhaled the sweet, buttery scent of rolls and pastries wafting from the other end of the spacious kitchens, where the elves were preparing Christmas Dinner for tomorrow.

Draco had spent nearly his whole holiday so far down in the kitchens brewing, but thanks to his impeccable timing he was now finished in time to enjoy Christmas at the Manor. He poured his precious potion into two separate flasks and pocketed them before going upstairs to seek out his mother.

Draco's mother had been scarce the last week. At first Draco had been sure she was merely mad at him, but it quickly became obvious that something else was bothering her. Whenever he entered a room to find her, she jumped a little and looked up with startled eyes, before covering with a mild smile and returning to whatever she was doing.

Now, as Draco climbed the stairs up from the kitchen, he found her in the breakfast nook – a glass-enclosed room off of the upstairs pantry filled with blooming flowers. Draco generally preferred to breakfast in the dining room, because the breakfast room was usually overheated like a greenhouse. But his mother, perpetually cold, sought out the warmth of the sun like a cat and would stretch out on the purple chaise near the door to the gardens, reading.

As Draco approached, she sat up, a wild, desperate look in her eyes for just a glimmer of a second, before he cast him a warm – if somewhat forced – smile.

"I've finished," he said.

"That's wonderful, dear," she answered weakly, before turning back to her book. Draco was about to leave, when she spoke again,

"Tomorrow, we may have some… guests." Draco perked up – maybe there would be party! – at least some semblance of normalcy in the home despite his father's absence.

"Who?" He asked, trying to mask his excitement behind his usual teenage boredom.

"Oh, just some of your father's… associates." Her hand rustled the paper of the book on her lap, and Draco saw she had wedged a letter between the pages. Only then, did he notice the unfamiliar owl perched on the other side of the room.

"Who…?" he asked again, his tone much darker this time. She remarked the change, her eyes filling again with the fear he had seen when he first walked in, before she covered with a brittle laugh and a wave of her hand,

"Oh, just some of our good friends. Mr. Crabbe and Mr. Goyle."

Draco swallowed and felt the blood fleeing his face and hands. He pulled a chair away from the table turned it around so that he could sit and face her. She looked pale, and despite her manicured nails and her perfectly pressed robes, her face was worn and weary.

She noticed his concern, of course, and quickly waved it away, leaning back again to simulate absolute relaxation. "Oh, they'll just be dropping by to check up on things."

Something about the way she said it, perhaps, gave him pause.

"Have they been here to 'check up on things' before?" He asked slowly, watching her face carefully for any reaction. He saw her jaw clench ever so slightly. _Fuck._ Draco felt his stomach drop. "How often?" he asked, his voice hard.

When she didn't answer, he asked again, his voice rising in volume slightly, "How often, Mother?"

"Oh, every few days or so. You know, without Lucius around, they just want to be sure we're managing." Her tone belied the innocuous words. Draco felt his hands twitch as anger and indignation began to build. _How dare they come here? To my house? To threaten my mother? _The voice in his head sounded slightly hysterical, but he retained his composure as he turned back to her and fixed her pretty grey eyes with his own.

"Mother, listen to me," he said, in a quiet tone, looking around the room as if expecting someone to be standing behind them, listening. "I'm going to get you out of here."

"I'm still on house arrest, dear. The ministry will know. They… they also like to be sure that I'm… still obeying the order."

_What!_ Draco leapt out of his chair, sending it scraping across the floor. "Aurors? There have been aurors in my fucking house again? Mother, why didn't you tell me this was happening?" He was shouting now, and she winced at his language, but said nothing.

She shook her head at him and looked out to the frozen garden. "You have too much to worry about already," she said, and she sounded fearful. His Mother. _Fearful_. The thought disturbed and disgusted him so much that he stormed out of room without another word.

* * *

When Draco woke on Christmas morning, he lay in bed and tried to recapture the excitement of the Christmases of his youth. When he was a boy, he used to wake up before sunrise and climb into his parents' massive bed and whine at them until they got up and came down to the tree. There had always been mountains of gifts. New brooms, candies and cookies, little tin soldiers who marched into battle against each other, dress robes and Quidditch balls, and one year, a kneazle! He always got everything he asked for, and several surprises, too. His parents watched him open his gifts and make a terrible mess of the wrapping paper all over the fancy sitting room – it was the only day of the year he'd been allowed in there, which made it even more special.

Recent Christmases had been marred by school, and other things, though. When Draco failed to win at Quidditch, his father had refused by buy him the gear he'd asked for. When, in third year, he'd come home with poor marks, he'd been obliged to finish all of his holiday reading before Christmas and then open his gifts alone, but in the end his father had felt guilty and for Draco's birthday that summer he got box seats for the Quidditch World Cup. In Fourth Year he'd opted to stay at Hogwarts, of course, and although he'd missed his parents, the excitement of the Triwizard Tournament and the heaps of gifts they sent him more than compensated.

Last year, though, had been tense. His parents had hardly spoken to one another, and his father was gone nearly all the time. That was the holiday when Draco had seen his father in his robes and mask for the first time.

He'd tried telling them about Umbridge, and the Inquisitorial Squad, but they didn't seem to hear him. It had been – mechanical. Perhaps to compensate, Draco had received vastly more gifts than he'd expected, and access to a large potion of his vault (though most of it was still restricted until he turned 17.)

As he lay in bed he felt the joy of those early Christmas memories fading as bitter reality slowly sank in. There would be no more fantasy Christmases. Not this year, and probably never again.

And who cares? Christmas was for children, and Draco was not a child anymore. He heaved a sigh of resignation and shuffled into the bathroom.

When he walked down to breakfast in the large dining room, he found his usual Christmas cracker awaiting him on the plate. He pulled it lazily, and a brilliant flash of silver and gold flames leapt out. In their wake, he found a heavy silver ring sitting on his plate. Before he reached out to touch, though, he heard his mother's voice from across the room.

"You've opened it, then?"

He turned around and tried to smile at her. "Happy Christmas, Mother."

She sat down at her seat on the other end of the long dining table, shrunk to a more reasonable size for the only two inhabitants of the house, and smiled weakly back.

"Happy Christmas, Draco."

He looked at the ring on his plate and held it up to the light – a thick silver band, wider at the top, inlaid with a carved black stone depicting – he gasped.

"The Malfoy Crest," he said, awe in his voice. He quickly removed the ring he wore which marked him as future heir and replaced it with the new ring, the ring that signified him Lord Malfoy. Immediately the metal glowed and the ring re-sized itself to fit snugly around his left ring-finger.

"Yes, dear. You won't come into your inheritance until the summer, of course, but I wanted you to have it. We were saving it to give to you when you came of age but, with your father gone…" she broke off and looked at her plate, where an egg-white omelette had appeared, and sighed.

Draco looked at the ring on his hand. He loved the weight of it, the contrast of the thick black stone against his long, pale fingers. It made him feel… _powerful_… and he flexed his hand, making a fist and admiring the profile of the ring beside his knuckles. _The reward of adulthood_, he reflected. _Power at the cost of fantasy_. He opened his hand and splayed his fingers, feeling the weight of the ring. _Definitely worth it_, he thought.

The rest of Draco's Christmas passed quietly. There were gifts to exchange in the sitting room, and a quiet meal in the dining room. They spent the evening reading quietly by the fire in the library, the charmed piano tinkling away quiet Christmas music in the corner. He was beginning to think that the letter had been no more than an idle threat when the flames of the hearth in the foyer roared and by the time Draco had reached the dark marble entrance hall, he watched the floo expel the massive bodies of Crabbe and Goyle.

Draco could already smell the fire-whiskey.

* * *

Severus woke to a vague unease and a buzzing sound. He turned his head and his nose encountered… skin. In a flash he sat up, and gazed down blurry-eyed at – _oh, right. _Lupin lay sprawled across the bed, covers half off, still quite bare from the waist down. Severus snorted disdainfully, and rolled off of the bed to find his pants. He cast a quick _tempus_, and frowned. It was barely midnight – why had he woken? Then he remembered the buzzing noise, but it wasn't buzzing, it was whispering. And it was coming from the other room. Wand drawn, he walked to the doorway slowly, peering around the corner, until his eyes fell upon the face in his fireplace, encircled by flames.

"Professor!" Draco was whispering frantically.

"Draco?"

"Crabbe and Goyle. They're here and they're… _drunk_." The boy sounded like he was trying to disguise his fear. Without another thought, Severus dashed into the bedroom, retrieved his trousers from the pile of their discarded clothes, threw on his robes, and with a pinch of floo powder and whoosh of flames, he swept out into the foyer of Malfoy Manor.

Severus found them in the library, leering and circling like wolves around Narcissa, who stood shaking in the middle of the room, wrists tied behind her back and legs bound. Her robes had been torn from her shoulders and pushed down around her elbows, exposing a long, narrow throat, slight shoulders, creamy arms, and two small white breasts. Even in this state of undress, and shaking though she was, Narcissa stood straight, her chin out, defiantly proud.

Draco sat stiff and white-faced on one of the sofas, glaring into the fireplace. Probably the one he'd used to floo-call, Severus reflected. Draco's hands and feet were tied and he looked like he might vomit.

It took Severus only half a dozen hexes and a quick _crucio_ or two to subdue Crabbe and Goyle. He released the two Malfoys, and floated the intruders back into the foyer. He promptly tossed them back through the floo and sent them to Avery, because he couldn't resist the opportunity to spread the unpleasantness, it being Christmas and all. As soon as the flames died he warded the floo to admit only Draco, Narcissa, and himself.

Then he strode through the front door and began checking and recasting the wards on the manor. Apparently no one had updated them since summer – how was Narcissa still alive?

"Wait!" he heard behind him as he began casting the first set of repellents on the outer perimeter. "Wait, you're leaving?" Draco sounded affronted, and Severus turned to scowl at him only to stare blankly at the figure standing in the doorway, looking out into the dark night.

He was framed by the light from inside, and Severus couldn't see his features, but he looked so… small… standing in the doorway of that massive, looming mansion. _Gods, he's just a boy_, Severus reminded himself. He'd seen the ring, of course, as soon as he'd had a second to spare to look at the boy and see he wasn't hurt. It looked overlarge on Draco's delicate fingers, Severus thought.

"No, Mr. Malfoy, I am warding," he replied with a sneer, and turned back to his task.

He encountered several anti-warding barriers that had the distinctly formulaic feel of Ministry work, which he of course dismantled. He found the remnants of a Dark Mark barrier, probably from before the fiasco last spring, still lingering around the western wall. Draco turned up again at that point, and cast warming charms on them, which Severus found rather presumptuous. It was all the more irritating because he had, in fact, been quite cold. But he didn't say anything.

Draco stood silently and watched, then sullenly traipsed after him as they moved around the house. He wanted to tell the idiot boy to go back inside and sleep, because he obviously wasn't going to be any help, but the boy was being blessedly and uncharacteristically quiet, and he figured he could tolerate his presence for the time being.

It took Severus two hours to circle the entire building and recast all the wards, by which point he was cold, cross, and exhausted.

* * *

After putting his mother to bed with a calming draft and instructions to the house elves to sit by her bed until he came back, Draco threw on a fur-lined cloak, and went out after Snape. He found him along the western wall, muttering and flicking his wand. Flashes of light from his wand sent out glowing threads that floated up into the sky around the manor, forming a multicoloured grid. Draco watched in awe. He'd never seen wards like this cast at night. The air around them tingled as Snape sent out search and test spells to identify old wards, and dismantled them, then replaced them. Draco shivered from the magic and the cold, and before he could stop himself, he cast warming charms on himself and on Snape. To his relief, he was spared a biting comment for his show of weakness in offering the gesture with no motive other than concern.

They circled the house slowly, and more than once he considered simply going to bed, but he was too wired from the attack and he felt like he needed to be there. He told himself it was because, at the end of the day, he still didn't know how far he could trust Snape, but he knew that he had no idea how to tell if Snape was somehow deliberately making the Manor vulnerable. And he didn't truly believe that Snape would. In fact, Draco was rather glad to be here with him in the freezing cold, because at least as long as Snape was here, nothing too bad would happen.

At long last, Snape finished, and they went back inside. "Lock your floo," Snape said, his voice clipped. Draco heard, "I want you to be safe,' and nodded. An instant later, Snape swept through the fireplace and was gone before Draco could even say 'thank you.'


	32. Deja Vu

So, Draco's life pretty much sucks balls. And not in a good way.

**Chapter 32: Déjà Vu**

First thing in the morning on Boxing Day, Draco pulled out his potion and set up his cauldron on the desk in his bedroom. He'd narrowed it down to three protean charms he wanted to test, and after last night he knew he could not delay any longer. To test each variation, he would pour out some of the potion, cast the charm, then paint the charmed potion on two separate pieces of parchment. He'd procured his grandmother's old wand for the purpose, because he wasn't legally permitted to use magic out of school yet. It never worked as well for him as his own, but it was good enough.

The first protean charm he tried transferred only non-magical alterations, like writing, but not spells, like the charm that would make the words on the page dance around, or jumble themselves.

The second one was purely a transference charm, it seemed. Writing on one scroll would transfer it to the other one, but leave the original one blank. He could see the usefulness of that charm, but it wasn't what he needed.

The third one, though, worked just about the way he wanted it to. He could write the words, 'Draco, Lord Malfoy' and they would appear on both scrolls simultaneously. He could charm the words on one scroll to flash green and silver, and both scrolls would respond.

He stared at the blinking words and a look of grim determination spread across his face. He vanished the scrolls and the test potion, then poured the remaining contents of both flasks into the cauldron, and recast the third charm. Carefully, he distributed half of the charmed potion into each of the two flasks, and pocketed one of them, hiding the other one in a warded drawer by his bed. Then he went to find his travelling cloak. There was no time to waste. He had to get his mother out of that house.

With a whoosh of flames, Draco felt himself spinning and whirling, and in moments he was stepping gracefully out into the Leaky Cauldron. Twenty minutes later, he boldly walked through the door of Borgin and Burkes.

Needless to say, Borgin wasn't pleased to see him. Draco made a few veiled threats, sneered at the merchandise, and then bribed him with a bag of galleons to close the shop and disappear to the back. Once he was alone in the shop, Draco pulled out his grandmother's wand and began to paint the contents of his flask onto the inner surface of the back of the cabinet.

The potion glowed the same orange-pink it had when the Dark Lord slashed it across the Muggle woman's torso. And as it had done that day, so again did it creep out toward the sides, down to the bottom, and in a bizarre, upward drip it creeped up to the upper edge, until every inch was coated and glowing. Then the colour faded.

Draco sighed. The first part was finished. He packed up the flask and pocketed the wand, called to Borgin that he was leaving, and stepped out the door –

and straight into an auror.

* * *

Two, possibly three, hours later, Draco was suffering a serious case of _déjà vu_. It was absurdly creepy. The hot white lights, the stinging table, the taunting, the questions. As his disorientation grew under _crucio_ after _crucio_, he almost forgot what time of year it was, and he began to wonder if he'd ever left that room at all, if everything had been no more than an elaborate fantasy. The Mark on his arm was invisible, hiding in the presence of the Ministry as it was designed to do. He could almost convince himself that there was no Mark at all. He didn't bother asking about his Mother. He knew he wouldn't get any answers.

"You've violated your court ordered house arrest, Mr. Malfoy," someone helpfully informed him. Draco rolled his eyes.

"What were you doing in Diagon Alley?" They asked again and again.

They asked him about Death Eaters, the Dark Lord, even Potter. Draco remained silent, except for the screams he couldn't hold back under the _crucio._ He refused all food and drink, terrified that they would slip him veritaserum. Last time he'd been here, he didn't have anything to hide. But now... if he thought these incompetant and self-rightous arseholes were even remotely capable of protecting him and his mother, he might have been willing to turn over for them. But he couldn't believe that they would ever win. The Dark Lord is unstoppable. So Draco held his tongue, and the torture continued.

This time, he managed to go a whole day and a half without pissing himself.

At first it was just a nagging twinge, an impulse to squirm, but slowly he became aware of the pressure on his bladder. He crossed his legs, and squirmed some more. He pressed the heel of his hand into his crotch gently, which eventually made him hard, and although that was embarrassing, it seemed to help.

A little. For a while.

Eventually, though, the cramping in his bladder was too great and with a sudden, involuntary shiver, he felt the first drops trickle out. The warm wetness quickly filled the crotch of his underwear, flooding around his cock briefly before running down the cleft of his arse to soak the seat of his trousers. Gradually the warm urine spread down his trouser-legs and dripped out to form a yellow puddle on the white floor. He felt eyes on him, though he could not see his audience, and to his horror he felt his cock twitch. With a jolt he realised he had gotten completely hard at the feeling of being trapped, tied to a chair, publically wetting himself. Of course, that realization was quickly followed by a rush of shame and self-loathing so intense that he shuddered and had to bite back tears.

His face was burning from the humiliation, and he recalled bitterly the last time he had sat here like this. And then, flashes of the leering eyes of Crabbe and Goyle, and of Aunt Bella's taunting words, and the laughter of the other Death Eaters mingled with the jeers of the aurors around him. The voices rang in his ears. The shame and fear and humiliation came flooding back to him, his tormentors blending into a single, uniform _them_.

A muttered "_crucio"_ followed by searing pain shooting down his spine and out into every nerve, and Draco stopped caring.

* * *

After the third day, they threw him into a tiny holding cell. There was no window to the outside, only a metal door that tingled with wards, with a small slot through which he could be observed. Draco couldn't be sure if the change in his accommodations was good sign or not, but he was so, so, so grateful to be out from under those horrible lights. Even broad daylight would have seemed blessedly dark to him at that point.

The room was built of thick stone slabs, and no more than six-foot squared, with a high ceiling that drew up any warmth and left him cold at night. There was a rank-smelling mattress on the floor, and a toilet with no seat, and a small faucet that hung low on the wall over an open drain in the floor instead of a sink. And no soap. That did not, however, stop Draco from washing his face and hands and hair as best he could. He was not a peasant, or a dog.

Over the next several days, they fed him a soup that smelled like rotting cabbage and eventually someone brought him a change of clothes. He couldn't tell, but he was pretty sure he was still somewhere in the bowels of the Ministry. He knew they would be taking him to Azkaban soon, but he forced the thought from his mind. Maybe there was still some way. His mother's words from months ago… her warning about how hard Azkaban would be on a _'delicate' _boy like him… echoed in his skull. He'd written her off then, but that was before he'd seen…

Anyway, he knew better now.

He spent a lot of time thinking about his mother. He wondered if she would survive with both her husband and her son in Azkaban. If they were tried and stripped of their titles, she would lose the Manor. And her name. She'd become a Black, most likely.

He chose not to think about the other possible consequences of his arrest. The Dark Lord might think he had betrayed him, that Draco was talking. He wasn't, of course. But he doubted the Dark Lord would care, which is why he chose not to think about it. Instead he repeated to himself over and over that Snape had warded the house, and his mother would be safe. Of course, Snape had constructed the wards, so he could take them down if the Dark Lord bade him to.

But Draco couldn't think about that. He focused on the ludicrous possibility that Snape was actually on Draco's side, and wanted to help, and tried to block the voice of reason that reminded him that Snape is a Slytherin and a loyal Death Eater and no more than a Professor to him.

He thought about rolling on the Dark Lord. He considered it long and hard. Despite the humiliation and torture he'd endured at the hands of the Goddamn Ministry, and despite his faith that the Dark Lord was truly unstoppable and to cross him would mean certain death, he was sorely tempted to give in, to offer them a deal, just to get out of there. But then he thought about his mother, alone in that house, and he just couldn't do it.

He thought about Potter, too. It was tempting to want to blame Potter for everything the Ministry did, but frankly Draco knew that Potter had neither political savvy nor the necessary ambition to be anything more than the Ministry's Poster Boy. Merely a pathetic pawn. That made Draco even more bitter, though, because really, if anyone should be able to get him out of here, you'd think it would be the Goddamn Gryffindor Golden Boy. What is the point of conceding to being 'together' with the Boy Who Lived, if he can't (or won't) get you out of fucking prison?

He spent a lot of time swearing at Potter in his mind, as he was doing tonight, lying on the filthy mattress unable to sleep.

He had no doubt that Potter knew he was in here. It was probably all over the papers - a thought which drew him back to his mother and he forced it away. He focused on Potter. Potter, the prat, who obviously didn't give a flying fuck that Draco was stuck in this hellhole, about to be thrown to the wolves in Azkaban.

He thought about the look of mingled worry and revulsion on Potter's face when Draco had been Summoned on the train, and a ridiculous pang of longing caught in his throat. And to make it just a little worse, just a little more humiliating, Draco realised that the memory of Potter on his knees in that train compartment had him hard again. Rock hard while lying in a filthy, smelly, dark, disgusting _prison cell_. How was that even possible? It was all too much for his dignity to bear.

He rolled onto his other side and closed his eyes, trying to block out thoughts of Potter, but they came flooding back to him. His arousal throbbed, demanding attention.

Draco groaned and finally gave in to the temptation, rolling onto his back and quickly slipping his hand down to grasp his cock. He stroked himself in strong, even thrusts, smearing the dripping precome down over his shaft and bring his other hand down to fondle his balls. He stifled a little moan. _How long has it been?_ He imagined the feel of soft hair between his fingers, and hot, urgent breaths in his ear. The stubbled chin, the smooth chest, the weight of Potter's erection in his hand, the firm mounds of his pale arse, the taste of his tight little hole, and the feel of it twitching around his tongue. He heard Potter begging to be breached by Draco's tongue, and fingers, and cock.

Draco threw his head back and thrust into his hand, spreading his knees to allow the slick fingers on his sac to slip back a little further. He tried experimentally stroking his own quivering entrance, and the unfamiliar sensation sent out a thrill of pleasure so intense he had to bite his lip to stifle a moan. Instantly, he felt himself careening over the edge of his orgasm. He jerked to the side at the last second, shooting hot streaks of his come against the cold stone wall.

He lay on the mattress, heart pounding, trying to catch his breath. As the fog of pleasure slowly lifted, Draco braced himself for the shame and self-loathing he knew would come.

It came to him in waves, warming his already-flushed cheeks and compelling him to turn away from the wall to stare at the ceiling. He wanted to cry. Or bash his own head in. Tossing off in a filthy prison cell thinking about the Boy Who Sucks and touching himself _like that _had cost him the very last shred of self-respect. _Gods, how I hate Harry fucking Potter._


	33. Safe

**Chapter 33: Safe**

"You must go and have him released, Albus."

"I don't have the authority to do that, I'm afraid."

"Don't feign humility to me," Severus growled. "You know you could walk in there and get him if you wanted to, you've done it before. You must go and get him, he cannot stay there. They will eat him alive."

The old man turned to survey him with thoughtful eyes and a slight frown, and Severus felt his pulse quicken but he stilled his mind and refused to waver under the piercing gaze.

"You want to save him," he said quietly. Severus almost started at the words for the second time this month. Since when does he want to save anyone? Apart from Potter, because that is his duty. Perhaps it had become like a bad habit that he was having trouble breaking. Or maybe, for once, Draco was someone Severus actually _wanted_ to help.

Regardless of the reason, he soundly dismissed the entire proposition with a sneer. "I want to do my duty to the Order."

"You can do your duty without Mr. Malfoy present. If he is incarcerated, he will fail, and you will fulfil your part of the Vow."

"Whether or not I am obliged to fulfil that vow, Draco Malfoy cannot stay at the Ministry, Albus."

"Perhaps, if he is held there long enough, he will be willing to come to our side."

"You want to leave him to be tortured by Scrimgeour's henchmen to make him change sides?" The cruelty was inconceivable. "And why would he?"

"Because by now Voldemort will suspect that he already has."

"I had no idea you had such faith in the benefit of our esteemed legal system, Albus," his voice dripped with sarcasm, "You might have left Potter to languish a bit two summers ago, then, instead of running to his aid. Perhaps he might have learned something about following orders and we could have kept the mutt alive."

"Severus," came the weary response, and Severus felt a pang of guilt, but pressed on.

"No!" he answered, "You know as well as I do that the Dark Lord has too much invested in Draco. If you don't get him out, the Dark Lord will, and then you will have lost your chance to turn him."

"I do not think I am the one who can turn him, Severus."

"I cannot risk it, and you know it," Severus ground out. "I can't be sure he won't expose me and try to supplant me."

"Do you really believe Mr. Malfoy would betray you?" Albus asked, and his words sounded strangely sad, and tainted with pity.

"I cannot be sure," Severus answered more bitterly than he wanted.

"Neither could I, when I trusted you," came the simple reply.

Severus looked up in the tired blue eyes and sighed. "You are a better man than I, Albus. And a braver one," and he swept out of the room.

* * *

Draco had been trying to count the days by scratching lines into the stone above his bed. Unfortunately, he couldn't be sure when one day ended and the next began, because the light level never changed. And he slept a lot to avoid the hunger, so he was never sure how long he'd been out.

In the end, he gave up, and settled for counting lucid moments.

There was no pattern to his day that he could discern. They might be feeding him daily, but he was pretty sure they skipped it every now and then. They brought him back to the white room for questioning every few days or so. They questioned him, and _crucioed_ him, and occasionally someone brought out a knife or a brand or a whip, but his screams never changed much, and once he went hoarse they would get bored and throw him back into his cell.

They never raped him. He would have expected them to rape him, but he figured that rape might be too much for the self-righteous Side-Of-The-Light fuckers to justify to themselves. Torture and starvation, sure, but they were clearly too good for rape.

Draco heard some of the other prisoners, sometimes. Once, he heard a familiar voice that, two days later, when he was remembering a childhood trip to London and trying to distract from the hunger, he connected with the name Shunpike. They must have brought him from Azkaban for more "questioning."

The next day, the toilet stopped flushing.

His room grew rank with the smell, and he could barely force himself to swallow the cabbage soup when it came. He cried himself to sleep.

When the door creaked open for the first time in what might have been months, or maybe years, the light was so blinding that he covered his eyes with his filthy sleeve and winced at the headache that immediately formed around his temples.

All at once, a massive shape in black robes swept down over him and strong hands grasped his elbows and lifted him up, holding him against a tall, warm body. He heard a soft, low voice saying his name, and smelled something familiar - persimmon and parchment. A sheet of thick, dark hair fell across his cheek and he realised that his arms were wrapped around the man's neck and he was shivering. Something wet ran down his cheeks as he shuddered into black robes and a strong hand stroked his back.

Snape had come for him.

Draco allowed himself to be carried. He heard a spell muttered over him, and his lids began to droop, and he slipped unresisting into sleep.

The whirling whoosh of fire and wind woke him as they stumbled out of a floo and into dark rooms.

For a horrible moment Draco was sure that Snape had brought him into that cold, dark house to offered up to the Dark Lord as a traitor.

But then he smelled the familiar, musty odour of old books and spilled ingredients. Snape deposited him onto the little couch in front of the fireplace where he had once fallen asleep. No. He was in the dungeons at Hogwarts. He was safe, for now.

Presently, Snape returned to lift him into his arms again. Draco felt himself carried through the doorway that led from the study to the bedroom, and then into the bathroom. A bath was running in a free-standing copper tub and the white- and black-tiled room was already fogging up.

Draco allowed himself to be helped out of his clothes, letting them fall to the floor. He was beyond shame. A strong hand on his elbow, and another on his back, guided him into the tub, and he sank into the scalding hot water and closed his eyes.

Nothing had ever felt so good.

He lay there soaking for a long time before finally lifting his head to find that Snape had not left. He was sitting on a small stool beside the tub, wearing only his shirt sleeves, watching him. Draco felt a twinge of self-consciousness and sat up.

Then, to his immense surprise, Snape rolled up his sleeves (a gesture so unlike the neatly polished man he was accustomed to), and reached for a bar of yellow soap and a faded green washcloth. Draco would have protested, but for the long fingers curling around his bony shoulder and the pleasant roughness of the cloth against his back. He closed his eyes again, and allowed it.

He could not recall the last time someone had bathed him. Surely it was a nanny, when he was a small boy. Draco was always kept meticulously clean but he was sure neither of his parents had ever actually bathed him. It was such a strangely intimate act, and Draco knew he ought to find this experience hideously embarrassing, offensive, invasive, and possibly threatening - but something about the wrinkle of Snape's brow, and the fearless efficiency of strong arms and slick palms… it felt ok. Still safe.

When he was raw and pink from the hot water and the scrubbing, Snape helped him to stand, hands gripping firmly around slippery-wet arms. A towel materialized as he stepped out. Then an old, faded bathrobe fell over his shoulders.

Draco tied the sash and padded after Snape into the bedroom. He stopped in the doorway to see the man standing beside his bed, facing away, apparently unbuttoning his shirt. He pulled it out of the waist of his trousers and slid it off of his shoulders, and Draco saw pale skin covered with what looked like the lashes of a whip. Something caught in Draco's throat as the shiny silver scars glinted in the dim light, but an instant later a fresh white shirt covered them, followed by black robes. Snape turned to face him, his robes still open, his face inscrutable. Draco followed the path of Snape's wand as he streaked it from his neck down to below his waist, and all the millions of little buttons instantly sprang into place. A quick hand through his hair, and Professor Snape, Head of House, Death Eater, Spy had returned.

The older man led the way into his study, and Draco followed, feeling extremely underdressed. They sat – Draco on the couch, Snape on an armchair. The house-elves had brought them dinner, it seemed, and Draco realized he was starving.

His stomach had shrunk, though, from the near starvation diet he'd been given for the last… _gods_, he had no idea how long it had been. Apparently Snape could read his mind:

"You've missed the first day of term. I'm sure you'll be able to get the notes from a classmate." Draco jolted up at stared at him. Term had already started. He'd been locked up since Boxing Day – that was _three weeks_ ago, apparently_._

"Did we floo in?"

"A connection was created for the students, it was deemed safer, though less _entertaining_, I'm sure," the inflection on 'entertaining' made Draco's ears turn red as he remembered that Snape had seen his memories of the train ride home before Christmas.

They ate in silence for a few more minutes.

Finally, Draco couldn't wait any longer. He needed to know why the Dark Lord had sent Snape to get him. He needed to know if he had only been saved to be offered up as a sacrifice.

"How did you get me out?"

"Dumbledore." Snape said simply, and Draco knew his eyes went wide with surprise, but he couldn't help it.

Snape looked like he might elaborate, but a knock on the door interrupted him, and suddenly Professor Dumbledore was striding into the room, his long white beard standing out against long blue robes.

"Good evening, Mr. Malfoy," he said congenially, and Draco was almost too stunned to answer.

Finally he forced out a quiet, "Thank you."

"I suspect I am not the only one you have to thank, my boy," Dumbledore said, and Draco turned to Snape, who looked vaguely guilty. Draco looked in horror from Dumbledore to Snape and back. Did the Headmaster know? Was Snape a traitor?

Dumbledore looked at him very seriously and in quiet voice, said, "Mr. Malfoy, coming over to the Light. We can protect you."

"Fine job you've done of it so far."

"You are here, are you not?" Dumbledore asked, adding, "I believe Professor Snape is more than capable of keeping you safe."

Draco, agree though he might with that last sentiment, wanted to scream at Dumbledore that that was hardly a consolation since the last three weeks had been absolute, utter living hell – and that he was fool, and absolutely fool, to think that Severus Snape was anything but a loyal Death Eater - but his words died in his mouth as he caught sight of that blackened hand. _Gods_, it hadn't healed at all since summer. In fact, it looked worse. Like it was spreading. He shuddered as he watched it reach into a pocket of Dumbledore's flowing robes and withdraw a timepiece.

"Please excuse me, gentlemen, I am late for an appointment with a mutual friend."

The significant tone of his voice made Draco's stomach lurch and for an insane moment he though of cold white skin and flashing red eyes. He rubbed his left wrist with his right thumb absent-mindedly.

Apparently Dumbledore thought his reaction amusing, and smiled, adding, "the young Mr. Potter."

Snape growled something about 'special treatment' and 'favouritism,' but the Headmaster merely gave him and ironic smile and swept out of the room. Dumbledore did have a point, Draco thought, fingering the bathrobe in which he was wrapped. He glanced at Snape, whose mask of indifference was firmly in place, and then he remembered the frown of his brow and the slick skin of his bare arms covered with soap. The mask was more human to him, suddenly, because he had seen past it, if only for a moment.


	34. Apparition

_vvvmmm:_ Thank you!

_septemberbeauty13:_ Thank you!

_blackcurrent:_ Thanks. No, I don't think you're imagining it. I think Severus is definitely attracted to Draco, but I'm not sure Draco feels the same way. Draco seems to be transmuting all his absent/distant father issues onto Severus instead. Anyway Severus is already involved at this point, and he just isn't sure he can trust Draco. Still, there's definitely a glimmer. Honestly I'm as surprised as anyone.

_[As previously, __**bold**__ lines are taken or paraphrased from the text by JKR and are not mine.]_

**Chapter 34: Apparition**

Snape kept him up for several more hours before Draco apparently passed out on the couch. He woke up to find it had been transfigured into a cot, and he was covered in a blanket. He closed his eyes again and tried to remember the conversation from last night, in which Draco had ascertained the following:

First of all, his mother was fine. Snape had been to see her during Draco's imprisonment, the wards were fine, she was fine, everything was fine. Draco had asked a great many detailed questions which had irritated Snape to no end, but he felt relatively confident that things were ok, given the circumstances.

Secondly, MLE had not formally charged Draco with anything, and therefore there was no record of his incarceration. As a result, there was no press coverage. Which means that almost no one knew about it.

For a fleeting moment, Draco dared to hope that the Dark Lord was oblivious, but Snape crushed that possibility immediately. Not only was the Dark Lord fully aware, but so were many of the other Death Eaters, including parents of other Slytherin students, which meant that those students would likely try to use this as leverage against him. They would question his loyalty. They would threaten to out him as a Death Eater, or worse, accuse him of being a Death Eater and a traitor.

Fortunately, no one knew, (not even Snape, apparently), how the Dark Lord would receive Draco when he was next summoned. Snape revealed that several voices in the circle over the last month had accused him of disloyalty, but the Dark Lord had been silent about his intentions. So it was unlikely anyone would move against him until his position was confirmed to have been lost. Until then, it would be best to act as though his position was unchanged, and wait for his next summons.

In the back of his mind, Draco allowed himself to consider the revelation that Potter probably had no idea how he'd spent the last three weeks. He resolved not to tell him. He could already see the contemptible pity on his face and the thought was so infuriating he had to physically shake his head to dislodge it.

He looked around. Apparently the Malfoy house-elves had brought his things to Hogwarts for him, and he was relieved beyond words to find they had incuded the three things he had been most concerned about: his wand, his ring, and his potion. After watching him brew it in the kitchens for a week, they obviously understood how vital it was, and had managed to apparate it into the grounds without detection. Clever buggers.

* * *

Draco strolled into breakfast late, and all the heads at Slytherin turned to watch him. He caught several wary eyes, but no looks of outright mutiny. He was dressed in cleanly pressed school robes, and most importantly, he was wearing his Malfoy family ring. He made sure to use his left hand to brush the hair out of his eyes as he approached, and remarked with carefully disguised glee the many eyes that followed the glinting black stone.

He immediately made eye-contact with Blaise, who looked for a second like he might resist, but ultimately slid over with a slight nod of his head, and Draco slipped into his seat and surveyed the rest of his House disdainfully. Sitting there, he would be unable to see Potter, but establishing dominance in Slytherin was vastly more important right now. He reached gracefully with his left hand for a goblet of pumpkin juice and brought it delicately to his lips. He wiped his mouth with a napkin, then stared pointedly at Vincent and Greg across the table as he adjusted his tie with his left hand, the faceted black stone glittering against Slytherin green and silver. He noted that both Blaise, on his right, and Nott, on his left, were watching him out of the corners of their eyes, and smirked.

"Nott, how was your holiday?" He asked, without looking up.

"Uh, fine," he muttered, glancing nervously at Vincent. Of course _Vince_ would have told him about Christmas night, and about the arrest, but apparently he did not feel secure enough to use the knowledge yet.

He turned to Pansy, across from him, "Pans, dear, how was Cannes?"

"Lovely this time of year," she answered airily. "Would you like the notes from class yesterday?"

"If they're any good," he nodded, and she pulled a fake pout before returning his smirk. Draco noted satisfaction that no one dared ask him why he wasn't present for the first day of term.

The rest of the meal progressed in similarly tense, falsely polite tones, much to Draco's relief. Apparently they were all still unsure about his political position, and had wisely chosen to hold back. The ring was definitely helping. Fortunately, being left-handed, he'd have plenty of opportunity to wave it around in class while taking notes.

Draco tried his utmost to avoid Potter's eye and focus on the Slytherins during class that morning, but by lunch time curiousity had gotten the better of him. He sat in his usual seat, across from Blaise, and ate slowly. He was still eating with restraint – his stomach seemed to fill up quickly and the complex and sugary foods had sent him to the loo several times this morning. Apparently his system was still too shocked by the change from starved to overfed.

After finishing half of a fillet of cod, he finally pushed his plate away, crossed his arms (careful to place the left arm on top) and dared to look over to the Gryffindors.

Immediately, their eyes met, and Draco felt heat creeping up into his stomach and into his face. His cock gave an interested twitched. Potter gave him a curious little frown, before breaking eye contact to whisper to the Mudblood as he rose from his seat. He looked back at Draco once more as he shouldered his bag before strolling out of the hall.

Draco felt a rush of anticipation, and he tried his best to retain his composure as he, too, exited the hall.

As soon as he approached the classroom (_their classroom)_ he felt strong hands pulling him through the door, and heard it shut behind him, but he couldn't see anything, because suddenly warm, cracked lips were pressed against his and rough hands were pawing at his robes and sharp hips were pressing him against a cold stone wall. He gasped, and Potter's tongue slid into his mouth, and he struggled to keep up. Potter seemed a frenzy of desperation and urgency and Draco felt himself going lightheaded as a warm thigh slid between his legs and began to rub against his growing erection. He reached down and adjusted Potter's hips, and suddenly their erections were grinding against each other through their trousers and Draco stifled a groan as Potter broke the kiss the nibble and then ohmygods_ bite _his neck. The heat, the urgency, the wordless, breathless _need_ coming off of the other boy was redoubling his own, and with a few more frantic thrusts, exploded in a burst of warm, wet come.

Draco leaned his head against the cool stone wall, and Potter slumped forward to press his forehead into Draco's shoulder as they panted, trying to catch their breath. Draco could just feel reality tickling the edges of his pleasure-filled haze when Potter moved off of him, and he looked up to see a ridiculous grin. He sneered, but Potter just rolled his eyes in that infuriating way of his, and bent in to whisper, "tomorrow."

Draco nodded fractionally. As if he would say no. Honestly.

* * *

Things seemed to fall back into routine after that. They hadn't met at night, but Draco was too busy to care – course work was building up and now all of a sudden his Saturdays were being taken over by Goddamn Ministry Apparition Lessons.

On the first Saturday lesson, the Great Hall was full of obnoxiously giddy, chattering students. Draco scowled.

The Ministry lecturer droned on, and on, so Draco took that chance to remind Vincent and Greg that these Goddamn lessons did not mean they were off the hook for polyjuiced guard duty.

Which is about when McGonagall snapped **"Malfoy, be quiet and pay attention!"** and suddenly the entire hall had turned around to stare at him. Draco felt his face flush and sneered back at them all. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Snape glaring at him.

As soon as the exercise started, Vincent turned back to him and whispered,

"How much longer are we going to have to do this shit, Draco?"

"**I don't know how much longer, alright?"** he shot back, irritated beyond reason by Vincent's continuing bad attitude. But he knew that he couldn't bully them into compliance any more, and that it was only on the Dark Lord's orders that they were helping now. In an attempt to sound civil, he added, **"It's taking longer than I thought it would."** Vincent huffed but seemed appreciative of this small explanation.

Until, "maybe, if you told us what you were doing, we could help," he offered, and Draco spun around to catch a glimmer of a guilty look in his eye before it was replaced by the mask of innocent ignorance. _So that's what's going on._

"**Look, it's none of your business what I'm doing, Vincent, you and Greg just do as you're told and keep a lookout."** The words came out more loudly than he had intended.

"**I tell my friends what I'm up to, if I want them to keep a lookout for me**," came Potter's insufferably cocky voice from behind, and Draco whirled around, wand at the ready, to meet Potter's challenging gaze. He hadn't even seen Potter move. _Fuck_.

He was about to respond when a bellowing, **"Quiet!"** rang through the hall and everyone whipped around to receive their next instructions. Draco barely paid attention. The prospect of being able to apparate without Snape frankly wasn't appealing, but at the moment all he could do was replay the last five minutes of conversation and try to determine what, exactly, Potter had heard. Definitely the term 'lookout.' Thank _gods_ for the polyjuice, he thought to himself. Potter's bloody paranoia were more than Draco could deal with right now.

Suddenly everyone was concentrating and spinning. Draco gave a graceful spin on his heel. This whole operation is so completely ludicrous, and he won't even turn seventeen until summer, anyway. Besides, he didn't relish acquiring the skill that would enable him to appear before the Dark Lord without Snape's supportive presence.

After a wasted day, Draco trooped back down to Slytherin to intimidate the younger years. He'd just managed to get a second year to run off crying, when a jolt of searing pain shot through his arm from his hand to his shoulder, and he had to grip the arm of his couch to keep the pain from showing on his face.

He rose and left the common room to go out into the cool dark dungeon hallway, and leaned against the wall. _Shit. _Despite his growing need to _go right now_, Draco could feel the fear and dread coiling in his stomach and he had to close his eyes and squeeze his fists and remind himself to breathe. _Fuck_.

A strong hand on his shoulder shocked awake, and he looked up to see Snape's black eyes peering fiercely at him in the darkness.


	35. Proof

**Chapter 35: Proof**

Snape took his memories of Potter again, before they left. He made no further comment about it, and although Draco was tempted to ask him to remove more, he remained silent. Snape slipped softly into his mind, and he felt him gently sifting through his memories for a few more minutes, sneering as he removed the occasional lunch-hour snog or midnight wank, then he saw the bathing scene flash in front of him, and Snape hastily removing it from his mind. That puzzled Draco, but without the memory to conjure, he couldn't tell precisely what puzzled him. Perhaps it was the notion that Snape apparently felt the need to withhold that interaction between them from the Dark Lord, which suggested that he was not acting entirely on the Dark Lord's orders.

That glimmer of hope sustained him through the long, dreary walk across the frozen grounds and into Hogsmeade.

The moment Draco arrived in the cold, dark house, he felt the rush of relief of having obeyed his Summons. But the pleasure was fleeting, immediately replaced by a dread that trickled down his spine like cold water. He shivered as he conjured his mask. Snape, as usual, did not conjure one for himself.

Belatedly, Draco paused to remove his ring, but Snape's hands closed over his, and he whispered in a low voice, "No, keep it on. They must see you as the future and acting Lord Malfoy." Draco nodded and left it on as he walked into the room.

Immediately, a hush fell. Apparently they had been waiting for him, and even masked it was abundantly clear who Snape's accompaniment was. The Dark Lord was sitting in his usual chair at the head of a circle of standing Death Eaters. Draco noticed that they were all wearing masks this time. His stomach churned and he felt dizzy, but he gritted his teeth and stepped forward.

"Draco Malfoy," said the cold, high voice.

"My Lord," he answered, dropping to his knees in front of the Dark Lord's feet.

"You are suspected of treason," the Dark Lord said, his tone neutral but no less threatening. Freezing cold panic ran down his spine now, and he barely suppressed a violent shudder.

"Dumbledore lives. You have failed me. You have failed us all. Tell me, have you also betrayed us, Draco?"

"No, my Lord!"

"_Crucio!_"

Suddenly pain was shooting down his spine and radiating out into every nerve in his body Draco felt himself convulsing and a scream that he knew by now must have been his own, echoed through the room.

When it was over, he rose to his knees again, and waited, a whimper of fear escaping his lips. There was blood in his mouth – apparently he'd bitten his tongue.

"Will you betray us, Draco?"

"No! My Lord I will not!" Draco answered, pleading, though his voice was hoarse.

Another round of _crucio_, and another, and always the question 'have you,' or 'will you' or 'are you planning to betray us, Draco?'

Finally, the Dark Lord stopped, and when Draco affirmed again that he had not betrayed them, the cold high voice said,

"We shall see."

Then a cold white finger touched to Draco's chin, and lifted his face so that his eyes looked into the Dark Lord's fiery red ones. Suddenly, the gentle touch on his chin became an iron grip on his jaw, and out of the corner of his eyes he saw a second white hand wielding a wand and heard "_legimens."_

He felt the Dark Lord's mind shoving its way into his with blunt force, and a blur of images ran across his inner eyes – he saw flashes of his childhood, of Quidditch, of receiving the Mark, of eating Christmas Dinner, of Crabbe and Goyle in his house, and finally, of the Ministry. Scene after scene rushed past him, until suddenly he felt the Dark Lord retreating, and a cruel smile twisted his features. He turned to the circle, asking

"Shall we have the proof of his loyalty?"

Cheers of assent rose up around him and Draco braced himself for another round of torture. Instead, red eyes turned back to him and he watched a complex series of wand motions and mutterings, before a second _legimens_ was cast. This time, though, the images did not flash in front of him. Instead, he turned to see swirling coloured smoke in the center of the circle, slowly forming semi-transparent three-dimensional shapes. His stomach dropped when he reognised himself tied to a chair in a white room, legs crossed, looking miserable.

The circle watched as his memories of being taunted, questioned, and tortured, were replayed in front of him. They watched him cry out in pain, beg to be freed. They watched pee his pants, and waves of cruel laughter rose up around him. Draco felt the blush on his own face mirroring the blush on the ghostly face of his floating memories. They watched him lying on the filthy mattress, whimpering his mother's name in his sleep. Draco closed his eyes, and looked away, to see Snape watching, not the memories, but him. His face was calm, but his eyes were darkened in the same grim determination he had seen in this room so many times before. A look the belied his calmness, that suggested something passionate hidden beneath the mask, but whether it was disgust, or shame, or pity, or even fear, Draco could never tell.

After several scenes of abject humiliation and fruitless questioning by the aurors, the Dark Lord waved his wand and the scene in the middle of the room dissipated into wisps of smoke that curled away into the darkness.

Draco turned to his Lord. He was still kneeling before him, but now the Dark Lord stood and reached out a hand in front of him. Draco grasped the fingers as he had done months ago, and pressed first his lips, then his forehead, to the cold white knuckles, before looking up. Dark Lord did not release his hand. Instead, Draco felt himself being pulled up to stand, and all of a sudden he recognized that it was his left hand which the Dark Lord held. A cold white finger ran across the black stone of his ring and red eyes flashed, before the hand was released. Moving agonizingly slowly, long fingers came up to brush a lock of hair out of his eyes, and a cold hand cupped his cheek gently. Draco shivered at the gesture, and felt his eye-lids flutter.

"You have been a loyal servant thus far, Draco Malfoy. Do not disappoint me."

-ooooo-

Once they were back in the alley behind the Three Broomsticks, Snape promptly returned Draco's memories. He was immediately overwhelmed him with a familiar rush of arousal and self-loathing and for several long minutes he leaned against the wall and tried to catch his breath. Couldn't he have waiting until we were back in the dungeons? Draco thought. When he finally opened his eyes, Snape had already begun walking. Draco rushed to keep up with Snape's wide strides.

"Professor," he called, but Snape did not stop.

Finally he caught up to him and boldly put his hand on the man's arm. Snape looked at him with surprise and incredulity, but Draco stepped closer and looked seriously up at him, and Snape raised an eyebrow, but stood, waiting.

"Sir," Draco began, not knowing how to ask. He decided to be concise, "why hasn't he killed me yet?"

Snape looked at him for a moment, dark eyes flashing, before he answered, "you have not betrayed him." From the look on his face, they were bother obviously thinking, _he has not seen any proof that you have betrayed him_.

"I have failed him," Draco pointed out.

"The Dark Lord has been generous," he answered in a guarded tone, but Draco brushed it off.

"I've failed him again and again, and he suspects that I'm likely to betray him in the future, he made that much clear," Draco hoped his concern on that point didn't betray the fact that it was actually true. "Why hasn't he just killed me?" Draco was aware that he sounded a little frantic, but he couldn't help it.

"He may still believe you will succeed in your task," Snape answered, but he didn't sound convinced.

"Professor," he pleaded.

Snape heaved a sighed and looked Draco in the eyes. "It is possible…" he began slowly, obviously choosing his words carefully, "that the Dark Lord wants something that only you are able to give him, at least so long as Lucius is in prison."

Draco watched Snape's face for a clue and thought he saw his eyes flitting to Draco's left hand. Draco's stomach dropped at the thought. It was unbearable.

"The Manor," he gasped.

"Yes. And the vaults."

"He needs the Lord. And if I come into my inheritance while he's imprisoned –" Draco began, his voice betraying his rising panic at the thought, but Snape cut in,

"Or if the Manor decides to accept your claim over his –"

"If I hadn't worn the ring -" Draco began accusingly, ignoring Snape, but again he was interrupted.

"If you had not, he might not have seen fit to keep you alive, regardless of your performance while in captivity," Snape growled impatiently. Draco heard, 'I'm trying to help you,' but he was too swept up in feeling betrayed and manipulated to really listen.

"My father will kill me," he said simply.

"I think you would have found the alternative worse," Snape answered quietly, and when Draco stared at him in appalled disbelief, he sighed and explained, "without either you or your father, everything goes to your mother. If she were uncooperative, then it would be a simple matter of disposing of her and your charming Aunt Bella, her closest living relative, would have it all."

Draco stepped back in horror and stared into black eyes hoping to confirm the lunacy of such a proposition, but Snape appeared to be quite sincere. He looked back down at the ring and began spinning it on his finger. For some reason it felt much heavily on his hand now.


	36. Cheap

_The Dabbler: _Thank you!

_viperblack_: Glad you like it!

_septemberbeauty13_: Thank you!

_blackcurrent_: I think he has changed his mind about a lot of things, but that's not enough to stop him from barrelling down his destructive (and self-destructive) path.

_lizique_: I'm so flattered, and I'm glad you're enjoying it.

_Jo: _I read your profile and giggled – "Harry/Draco" and "Snape as mentor" seems to fit pretty well :)

_bookivore_: Thank you so much for your thoughtful comments. I agree that Draco is not likely to turn to Dumbledore – he barely knows him (even in my version, which adds some interaction), and he certainly doesn't know or trust anyone else on that side. Snape is, I think, the only person who could be an ally, and he certainly hasn't benefitted materially. But my Draco does have a conscience, even if he only thinks of it as a weak stomach. The question is whether he can recognise his own motives, including those that go beyond the instinct of self-preservation. I'm not sure he's there yet.

Sorry for not posting yesterday – occasionally rl does get in the way a bit. But I made some important decisions so the next few chapters should be fun. Poison! Curses! Betrayal! Smut! It's all happening, kids.

**Chapter 36: Cheap**

Sunday dawned beneath oppressive cloud-cover and bursts of freezing rain. Draco had been back two weeks and after the Dark Lord's abundantly clear threats last night, he decided it was time to get back to work on the cabinet. The sooner he could create a connection, the sooner he could get his mother out of that house.

Distantly he was aware that his plan remained somewhat poorly formed. How was he supposed to get her out of the house with both Ministry and Death Eaters wards and random check-ins? And what then? Hogwarts might be safe but where would they go? But, well, he figured that if he could just get the thing working, then everything else would fall into place.

He clung to this absurd possibility. Without it, there was only the inevitable conclusion of this miserable farce: murder. Most likely his own. And if he didn't do something, anything, to subvert the propulsion towards his likely destiny as murder victim or at the very least prisoner in his own home, he would go insane from the dread. He uncovered and carefully removed the flask of his charmed potion from his trunk and gently tucked it into his robes before going down to breakfast.

He also decided to be a little more careful around Vincent and Greg. He would need to require them to continue their guard duty or he might risk forfeiting their assistance, and he really did need them. But for today, he decided to go up there by himself.

After making a show of studying in the library most of the day, he eventually ditched the other of Slytherin sixth-years and snuck up to the seventh floor. It took him only a few minutes to sneak in, paint the inside surface of the cabinet, and sneak back out. He heaved a sigh of relief. Ok. Tomorrow night, it would be time to start trying to dismantle the existing spells, and then casting _portus_ charms and see if one of them will stick. Somehow. _Gods_ this is too complicated.

* * *

Draco had almost - not quite, but almost - resigned himself to the possibility that Potter might, maybe, be an acceptable Potions student without Snape's presence in the room, which really only proved that Potter was a giant pussy who couldn't handle anyone trying to chip away at his enormous ego. Apparently with a slobbering fan like Slughorn solicitously fawning all over him, he was able to produce passable potions. Draco had seen them himself, and if the Mudblood was doing no better than Draco, then it couldn't be that she was helping him, either.

After half a year of this, Draco had almost accepted this newly aligned universe. The fact that Potter now regularly whimpered into his mouth might also have helped level the playing field enough for him to even consider accepting Potter's success as deserved.

And then, on Monday morning, after everyone in the class spent two hours actually working, Potter turned in a bezoar.

A fucking _bezoar_.

How is that fair?

In what universe is that anything like fair? Only Harry everyone-loves-me-so-I-can-do-whatever-I-fucking-want-and-not-only-will-I-never-get-in-trouble-but-people-will-actually-reward-me Potter could hand in a fucking bezoar and get away with it.

Draco was so livid he couldn't even eat lunch, much less meet that cocky bastard afterwards. He was sure he'd hex him, and although that would be gratifying, it really wasn't really a productive use of his time.

Instead, he focused on how much he hated this pathetic excuse for a school and how things would be different if he could just get his mother out and they could get away, far away, somewhere.

Which is how Draco found himself, resentment impressively channelled into productively swearing at the cabinet in the Room of Requirement. A _revelio _had shown at least three different spells that would probably need to be taken apart. The first was a ward against fire, but it was tangled up with something else he couldn't identity. And the third was probably the original spell to connect the two cabinets, but he didn't recognise it. Not that he'd expected to. After several minutes of cursing, and a wayward kick at a nearby shelf that left his foot rather sore, he resolved to leave and try to ask the Room to give him the Study, again. Maybe there'd be a book on identifying and unspelling wards.

He tried to take notes on the colour, texture, and other details, to look up, but his eyes were growing blurry. He cast a quick _tempus_: 11:30pm. With a tired groan he climbed out of the Room, walked in front of it three times, and then entered the Study to peruse the shelves. He never heard the footsteps in the hallway outside. Fifteen minutes later he emerged into the apparently empty hallway, walked back and forth again and waited for the Room of Lost Objects to appear. The door creaked as he pulled it open, which is why he didn't hear anyone slipping in behind him. He began walking toward the aisle toward the cabinet.

And then, suddenly, he heard the rustle of fabric behind him. _Fuck. Had Snape found him? Had someone followed him? Fuck!_

He spun on his heel and fired off a string of hexes that flew around the room, kicking up dust and shattering glass around them.

The intruder dodged, though, and remained unharmed.

"Fuck, Potter, what do you want?" Draco snapped when he saw him.

"I don't know," he said, "fuck, are you trying to kill me!" he barked, brushing dust and glass out of his hair. Then, "I saw you coming in and out. I was curious."

"You were curious," Draco repeated, his eyes narrowing. Potter was playing stupid and as easy as it might be to believe, Draco didn't. Not for a second.

"What do you want, Potter?" He asked again, fully prepared with at least three reasonable excuses for why he was in here.

But Potter didn't answer. Instead, he threw him a sly smile and stepped closer. Warm, calloused fingers grasped his, and then he was being tugged silently away, down another corridor of piled junk, and around a corner, until they were standing surrounded by several large mounds, covered in giant white sheets. Draco looked over at Potter impatiently, and then realized with a jolt that they were still holding hands. This was unacceptable, and he immediately withdrew his hand and crossed his arms, trying to look unimpressed.

"What? What is it? What do you want?" he asked.

Potter looked a extremely nervous. "I thought. After that time when Snape... and since then we haven't… and my cloak is too small… so…" he babbled.

"Spit it out." _Gods_ the dolt is _insufferable_.

Potter blushed, but flicked his wand and a white sheet floated down off of one of the large shapes to reveal a… bed. It looked like a student bed, but the hangings were all gone, and the tops of all four wooden posts were charred black as though they had been set on fire. Draco's eyes widened and he knew he was gaping when he turned to face Potter, who was now blushing bright red and carefully examining the floor between his shuffling shoes.

At length he looked up, and Draco quickly mastered the shocked expression on his face in favour of a raised eyebrow, and Potter's blush spread to his ears and he coughed.

Which made Draco chuckle.

Which is about when Potter, miraculously emboldened, decided to shut him up by pressing his lips to Draco's. You know, just in case Draco didn't understand his _extremely subtle hint_ in the form of a giant bed. _Gods_. Fucking Gryffindors.

And then there were hands tugging at his robes and he felt himself being guided slowly backwards until the backs of his knees brushed against the edge of the bed. _Oh no, no_. If anyone is getting thrown down onto a bed right now, it's Potter. Draco gripped Potter's hips and whirled them around and Potter gasped as he pressed him back onto the bed. But he quickly scooted back and rolled onto his side, and Draco followed him. And now they were lying down and facing each other and... staring.

Magic crackled between them as green eyes peered into Draco's.

Presently, Potter raised himself on an elbow and brought his other hand up to brush the hair away from Draco eyes. Then he sort of… hovered… over Draco's shoulder, and down his arm, and up over his hip, settling along his upper thigh before drifting back up again.

Such a _nothing_ gesture, and Draco realized he had closed his eyes and was breathing a little more rapidly. Something caught in his throat when Potter's hand returned to his hair, threading through it, then cupped his jaw, drawing his thumb over Draco's bottom lip. Potter's breath hitched as Draco parted his lips and with a tiny flick of his tongue, pulled it into his mouth to bite and then gently suck on it before releasing it again.

Draco brought his hand up to brush along Potter's thigh, then began drawing little circles with his fingers on the hip he found, before finally pulling him closer and bringing their mouths together.

There bodies slid across the sheets toward each other, hands on hips and shoulders pulling them until they were flush against each other, and Draco tried his best to withhold a groan when he felt the heat of Potter's cock against his own, but there was entirely too much fabric in the way. He pulled back impatiently and reach his hands between them and fumbling with buttons and zippers, and then Potter moved to help, and suddenly their trousers and pants were pushed down to the knees and Draco leaned into the warmth of Potter's bare skin.

The first time Draco felt his cock brush against Potter's, he gasped and might even have whimpered in a very un-Draco-like fashion, but he couldn't be sure because the gasp and grunt from Potter drowned it out. And suddenly his hips were rutting against Potter's, erections sliding between them.

Draco threw his head back and then Potter bit into his collar-bone and murmured, "fuck, Malfoy." Seized by a desire to control the overwhelming sensations coursing through him, Draco threw his leg over Potter's side and swiftly turned them so that he was on top, grinding furiously, head buried in Potter's throat. Potter arched up into him and moaned, "oh, _gods_ Malfoy_, fuck, _I can't, _gods_ I'm… " and then he seized up, jerking underneath him, and Draco felt Potter's cock pulsing beside his, and hot wet come spilling out between them, shooting nearly up to his chest, and it was too much. He pulled up and thrust once, twice, and then pumped his seed all over Potter's stomach before collapsing onto his back beside him, panting.

They lay there, catching their breaths, until Potter finally said, "that was…"

And Draco grunted in assent. Because there was no point lying about it. At least not right at this moment, when the haze of pleasure still hung heavily around him.

"Yeah," Potter agreed, reaching for his wand in his robes and casting cleaning charms on them. Draco's cock and stomach felt suddenly cool and dry, and it was pleasant, but he quickly moved to pull up his trousers, and Potter did the same.

They lay there in increasingly awkward silence a little while longer, and Draco had the sudden, irrational desire to just go to sleep. Well, kick Potter out first... maybe... and then go to sleep.

And then Potter, of course, had to ruin everything, the way he always does, because he fucking sucks.

"So, how'd you like the bezoar bit in Potions today?" he asked conversationally, apparently looking for praise, or admiration, or something like that.

"Cheap," Draco spit out, sounding a little more harsh than strictly necessary.

Potter snorted, "you're just jealous because I'm better at Potions than you are."

"You are not. Slughorn wants in your pants, _that's_ why you're suddenly making better marks."

Potter had the gall to bloody snort at that, too, and raised himself onto an elbow to say, "oh, and Snape never gave you an a break when he was teaching?"

"If you're suggesting—" Draco began, raising his voice considerably.

"That Snape gave you a break in class because he's hard for you—" Potter supplied with an infuriating smirk. "Yes."

"Severus Snape," Draco began, sliding off of the bed to stand and lowering his voice dangerously, "wouldn't give his own mother a break on a Potions practical, Potter, and you know it. Even if… even if he…" Draco stuttered, then veered away for that line of thinking. "You don't know anything about him. Or me." And with that he stalked away through the winding aisles of crap with as great an air of dignified offence as he could muster, making sure to slam the door behind him.


	37. Crucio

_septemberbeauty13_: Yes, I think Draco might just be catching on, but I don't think where it's going yet.

_Miss Kandy Whitlock_: Yay! I'm so glad you like it! I actually tried to avoid reading other sixth-year interpretations so I wouldn't be influenced, so I've no idea what other people are writing. Thank you for your generous praise.

So, ppl, I spent yesterday on another story that's been tickling the back of my brain for a while. Check it out, it's sort of creepy though, a much darker Draco than this. Anyway, now that I've gotten it out of my system I'm back to ITW!

**Chapter 37: Crucio**

Draco walked into Defence the next morning with just seconds to spare, and he barely settled into his seat beside Vincent before Snape turned around from the board. His eyes travelled to Draco for just a fraction of a second before he turned to address the class. Potter turned around and raised an eyebrow at him, and Draco spent the rest of the day scowling.

By dinnertime he had determined that Potter was simply jealous. Why else would he have spent the last six years in class systematically provoking Snape into punishing him? Potter obviously can't stand anyone else sharing the blistering beam of his permanent spotlight. Tosser.

In any case, Potter enormous ego wasn't Draco's biggest concern at the moment. As convenient as their new meeting place might be, he would now have an even harder time hiding his work on the cabinet. Fortunately, he knew the Gryffindors had the pitch for the evening, so he could safely get to work before Potter could turn up.

Predictably, that didn't work out. No sooner had Draco stepped into the common room than a frightened second-year scurried over and handed him a folded note. Inside he found Snape familiar, angular handwriting.

_Mr. Malfoy,_

_Report to my office at 8pm._

_SS_

When he arrived, Snape looked up from a stack of paper he was marking but said nothing. Draco sat in the uncomfortable chair across the desk and waited. And waited. He knew Snape made people wait to demonstrate his authority, but tonight he just really wasn't in the mood. Finally, he gave in and admitted his frustration,

"Professor?"

Snape looked up and sneered. Draco tried to look bored.

"How is your _cruciatus_?"

"Why?" he answered a bit defensively. Snape scowled at him like he had no business asking such a question.

"Because the Dark Lord intends for you join us on a raid soon and you will need to participate."

"Fine," Draco answered, trying to sound nonchalant. Snape wasn't buying it, though, because he responded

"Tomorrow, same time," and turned back to his work. Draco understood himself to be dismissed.

* * *

"Gods, _Malfoy_… nnnngg… _class_…" Potter was protesting weakly into his neck the next day at lunch, but he made no attempt to push away from where he had pinned Draco against the abandoned classroom wall.

"Fuck class…" Draco mumbled, and tucked two fingers into Potter's waistband and tugged him closer. Potter sucked in a shocked breath and ground furiously, fumbling with Draco's tie and collar. Draco shivered and suppressed at groan Potter's teeth dragged across his protruding collarbone. He tugged at Potter's shirt, determined to best him, dragging his nails down the hot skin on his back. Potter arched forward then, biting down on his neck and drawing blood, and Draco gasped and cried out, but a warm, calloused hand came up to cover his mouth.

He opened his eyes to see that Potter was bloody smirking at him for losing control like that. Draco narrowed his eyes and, in a flash, kicked to knock the legs out from under the other boy. Potter went crashing down and Draco landed on top of him, but his arms were still wrapped around him and he caught them before Potter's head hit the ground. Potter's face was flushed and he was panting heavily, eyes wide with surprise, and when Draco pressed their lips together, he groaned loudly and without reserve, rutting up into him with frantic abandon.

Scraping and knocking and a thousand pounding feet outside told them lunch was over, and Potter looked positively _in pain_ over it, but managed to get out a pathetically hopeful, "tonight? The room?"

Draco smirked, standing up and brushing himself off before answering, "detention."

"Tomorrow?"

"Quidditch."

Potter looked vaguely insecure, which was just rewarding enough for Draco to take pity on him. "Friday, after curfew" he offered.

Potter's face lit up and Draco rolled his eyes before slipping out the door and into the chaos of the hallway.

* * *

"You are not trying, Mr. Malfoy." Snape sounded bored, which was infuriating, because Draco really was trying.

"I _am_," he insisted, lifting his wand and pointing it at the kneazle in the cage in front of him. "_Crucio_" he cried, glaring at the fluffy creature, and it winced and whined.

"You must desire to inflict suffering," Snape said, his voice low, face inscrutable.

"Did you want me to suffer when you _crucioed_ me?" Draco shot back, knowing it would hurt.

"Yes, I did," he answered simply.

Draco knew that answer was meant to hurt him back, and it did. And under the pressure of his magical impotence, the hurt transmuted into a coiling rage that built up inside his stomach. He allowed it grow, feeding on the painful memories of his own torture at the hands of the Ministry and the Dark Lord, all the humiliation and fear and agony, welling up with him. He closed his eyes and let it build until it was unbearable, and then he looked directly at the pathetic, whimpering kneazle and wanted nothing more than to transfer every ounce of his pain onto it.

"_CRUCIO!" _he cried, and now the creature did wail, and writhe in agony, biting it's own tongue and screeching in pain. Draco felt a surge of power flowing through him as the kneazle cried out, scratching itself and beating it's body against the iron bars of its cage, but the pain inside him didn't subside. Instead, it seemed to grow, fuelling his rage, fuelling his curse, and the kneazle writhed more furiously, convulsing now. On and on.

Finally, when he felt a bead of sweat running down the side of his face, Draco broke the spell, and collapsed into a chair. He could only hope Snape's silencing charms had held, because the creature was still whimpering and twitching were it lay, blood bubbling out of the side of it's mouth.

Draco felt exhausted, but not relieved. The pain he'd gathered up was still there, and if anything, it was worse now, but it no longer filled him with energy. Instead he felt drained by it, and he wanted nothing more than to crawl into his bed and sob himself to sleep if only to make it stop for a while. He felt a pressure weighing on his chest, like he could never again feel joy, or calm, or relief. Only when he opened his eyes again did realize they were clouded with tears, and he wiped them away quickly, hoping Snape had not seen.

No such luck. Snape was watching him, his expression vaguely pained, but he stood up and approached Draco slowly, as if unsure whether Draco would lash out and curse him next. For some reason that made Draco feel infinitely worse, and he felt like no number of showers could ever wash away the stain of it.

He closed his eyes again and looked away, and was surprised when long fingers brushed his palm as they placed a piece of… chocolate?... in it. Draco didn't question, he simply ate, and as the rich velvety taste slipped down his throat he felt the pressure in his chest lightening, and warmth diffusing throughout him, and it was ok. He would be ok.

"Thank you," he managed thickly through a second bite.

Snape nodded, than added, "it doesn't get any better over time."

Draco thought about that, and then asked before he could stop himself, "how do you do it?"

It was a broader question than he was really prepared to ask aloud, but he needed to know. How can you be a part of this? How can you follow a madman who tortures his own followers? How can you believe in this? How can you sustain anything resembling humanity when you have to do this to other people?

Snape was looking at him thoughtfully, and he thought he might have felt the gentle slip of legimency before the man turned away from him and sat down in front of the fire.

At length he replied, "Not without cost."

Draco heaved a sigh and cast another glance and the twitching kneazle in the cage on the floor. Snape followed his eyes and flicked his wand, and in a flash of green light, the kneazle stopped moving, no longer in pain or misery. It seemed like a preferable fate, but somehow it was still devastating.

Draco spent the night waiting for sleep, but sleep never came.


	38. Nox

Smut, smut, smutty smut. This is basically a chapter without plot, a cwp, if you will – so forgive me :)

**Chapter 38: Nox**

By the time Friday night rolled around Draco had managed to convince and unconvince himself that planning to meet with Potter in a closed room with a bed and little chance of interruption and _gods only know_ what kind of expectations was a terrible, or brilliant, but probably terrible idea.

Up until now, there was always an excuse, or the chance of interruption, to prevent things from getting out of hand. Which Draco had always found extremely irritating and inconvenient until right now, when the prospect of limitless freedom suddenly felt oppressive. He skipped lunch and struggled through dinner, battling an absurd state of nervous arousal. Maybe Pansy's way was preferable – sudden, surprising, no chance to really think.

Draco arrived early, but didn't go back to the bed. Instead he rummaged through the piles of crap around the door and recovered half a bottle of fire-whiskey. He took a large gulp and hissed as the liquid burned the back of his throat and settled in his empty stomach. He closed his eyes and allowed the warmth to diffuse through him. He thought about taking off his robes but his pyjamas weren't really warm enough. So he just closed his eyes and tried to breathe. Ok, it will be ok. He wanted this, anyway, right?

Footsteps outside drove away his relaxation again and took another gulp. The door opened, and a nervous-looking Potter stepped in quickly and closed the door behind him. He looked surprised to see Draco standing right there by the door, and then his eyes drifted to the bottle and a quirked an eyebrow.

Draco shrugged in what he hoped was dismissively, and offered up the bottle. Potter took it without hesitation and swallowed a large swig, grimacing at the burn and wiping his mouth on his sleeve. Then he grinned nervously. They sort of stood there for a few seconds, just looking at each other, at for some reason it was unbelievably awkward, which made absolutely no sense considering that they'd been meeting like this for ages now. _But not in here_, Draco's brain helpfully reminded him.

Potter was the first to speak. "So, um…"

And Draco answered, "yeah." And then they both moved at the same time down the narrow corridors of piled crap until they reached the circle of sheet-covered furniture. Apparently Potter had covered the bed again, but he flicked his wand and sent it flying again now. The bed had been made. Had potter made the bed, too? Draco couldn't imagine why, except perhaps the force of habit.

Draco stood staring for a moment and made up his mind. He could do at least one thing that would make this easier.

"Nox" he muttered, aiming at the lights that lines the ceiling of the massive room. Suddenly they were plunged into darkness, and Draco heard a quiet chuckle next to him, and fingers grasping as his, and he squeezed, pulling Potter closer and turning him so that their mouths met.

And then everything seemed to make sense. Draco's face flushed with alcohol and arousal, and Potter's hands were pushing his robes off of his shoulders and unbuttoning his shirt, and Draco nimbly imitated him. And suddenly he felt a calloused hand stroke up his back and pull him closer, until his bare chest was pressed against Potter's, and the warmth made him gasp. A broad expanse of hot skin slid against his, and he felt the tickle of the few little hairs on Potter's chest against his own, hairless one. He ran his hands over muscular shoulders and long, Seeker's arms. Potter's hands were everywhere, running up and down his back, then pulling away to run down his smooth chest and over muscular abs before tucking into the waistband of his pyjama bottoms ever so slightly, and just then Draco decided that they definitely should not be standing right now, and with a forcefulness that surprised even him, he spun them around and shoved Potter, hard, onto the bed. He couldn't see the boy except for a vague shape, but he heard the gasp and the following growl, and then he heard himself growling back and he stalked toward the bed and climbed up onto it, hands finding silk and tugging until Potter was bare, and then he was, too. His hand ghosted up Potter's bare thigh, tickling the fine hairs and drifting ever closer to his cock, bending in closer to send little puffs of hot breath closer and closer, and Potter gasped and parted his legs a little, pleading quietly,

"oh gods… _please_…"

Draco smirked. "Please what, Potter?" Potter just groaned and bucked a little desperately. "Tell me what you want…" Draco purred, dragging his tongue up the length of Potters erection and back down to ghost

"Malfoy, please… need you to… _gods_…"

Draco leaned in close to where he figured Potter's ear must be, and whispered with perfect, precise annunciation, "Do you want me to suck your cock, Potter?"

"Fuck_yes_!" he cried out desperately, bucking and spreading his legs, and Draco smirked and slowly settled himself between those strong thighs, and ran his tongue along the bottom of Potter's cock again before taking the head into his mouth.

It was a singularly bizarre feeling. It felt at once familiar, and foreign, to have this hot, thick, heavy thing in his mouth. He tried experimentally flicking his tongue into the slit, and Potter hissed and bucked into his mouth. Draco gagged at the feel of it going too deeply and his eyes watered. He growled, gripping Potter's hips and forcing them down against the mattress, and tried wrapping his lips over his teeth and diving down as far as he could manage. It tickled the back of his throat but if he closed his eyes and tried to relax, he found it was remarkably easy to ignore. He wrapped his fingers around the base to stroke the rest that he could fit into his mouth.

Meanwhile Potter was writhing, and he could hear hands gripping the sheets and a head lolling back and forth. And then a hand came down and threaded through Draco's hair and he tensed, unwilling to let Potter take control like that, but when the hand in his hair only stroked him gently, he relaxed again and resumed his sucking. His jaw was already sore and it was having trouble believing people did this for fun, when he flicked his tongue over the slit again and tasted salty-sweet precome. _Oh. _His own cock gave an interested twitch.

Potter spread his legs spread further, and Draco began trailing a spit-slick finger down, down past his perineum to ghost over his entrance, running little circles around it, teasingly. Potter started bearing down against the pressure and Draco stopped sucking long enough to whisper a wandless cleaning charm, and say,

"Tell me what you want, Potter." One hand was still pumping firmly, and his finger was still trailing circles, keeping the pressure just a little too weak to be satisfying.

"Please… fuck _please_… I need it… _inside_… fuck _Malfoy_…. nngah…"

"Do you want me to put… this…" he pressed against the little opening… "inside you? You want me to finger-fuck you?"

"Yes… fuck _please please_ _yes!_…" Potter gasped as Draco breached him. The hot heat around his finger made him dizzy and his cock was achingly hard now as he resumed his sucking. He drove his finger gently in and out in rhythm with his mouth, and then tried to crook it, trying to find that bundle of nerves he knew to be in there, somewhere, though he couldn't be sure if he was hitting it.

Potter lasted a mercifully short time though, groaning "fuck _Malf… fuck_ I can't… I'm gonna…_nnnngah_…" and Draco held still when Potter tensed up, and just sucked on the head until he felt the cock in his mouth pulsing and one, two, three bursts of hot come filled his mouth. He swallowed without thinking, wiping a drip from the edge of his mouth. He was just about to reach around for the fire-whiskey then a hand reached around the back of his neck and pulled him up to a kiss that caught him by surprise. Potter's tongue licked along his swollen lips, and teased his teeth apart until he opened and then that warm, wet tongue probed and plundered his mouth, like he was trying to gather up the remnants of his own flavour.

Draco moaned and reached down to fist himself, sure he couldn't stand another second of delay, when Potter's hand swatted his away and quickly replaced it with his own, and began stroking firmly, pushing Draco down until he was flat on the bed. Against his will his hips began thrusting up into the tight circle of Potter's fist, and then he felt a hot tongue and sharp teeth dragging across a nipple and he squirmed and whimpered and was unspeakably grateful that Potter could not see him right now because the last of his dignity fled as Potter replaced his hand with his mouth and began to suck mercilessly. He was already so close that it only took him a few seconds and was coming down Potter's open throat.

Draco collapsed onto the bed and Potter pulled himself to lie down next to him, close but not quite touching. As his breathing evening out, Draco considered looking for his clothes, but the enveloping darkness was so comforting. If only they could find that bottle now. Apparently Potter was thinking the same thing, because he leaned across Draco and reached over the edge of the bed, coming back with a triumphant laugh followed by the sound of swigging and swallowing, and then cold glass was pressed against Draco's chest and he winced and sat up, taking it and drinking deeply.

He hissed at the pleasant burn, and whispered, "fuck," falling back onto his back to stare into the darkness.

"Yeah," came the quiet reply as Potter lay back next to him, this time just a little closer, so that their arms brushed, but neither of them moved.

Gradually Draco began to wake from the fog of his orgasm, prolonged by the comforting darkness and the warmth of the whiskey. He was just about to sit up and try to find his clothes, when a gentle snore drifted over from beside.

Potter was sleeping.

Draco felt something clenching in his chest and he was overcome with a completely stupid, absurd impulse to pull up the covers and go to sleep next to him.

He stared into the darkness for a few long, quiet minutes, before he finally pulled himself up and off of the bed. He fumbled around in the robes to find his wand and cast a _lumos_, then quickly got dressed. He turned to look at Potter under the blue light from his wand. He'd never actually seen Potter completely naked before, and his breath caught as he gazed at the pale from. His arms and legs were tanned from Quidditch, but his torso was a soft white. His cock lay limp across the thigh of a leg that was bent out at the knee. One of his hands lay across his chest. He looked so vulnerable lying there. How utterly stupid of him to simply fall asleep next to a Death Eater, Draco could do anything to him.

At the thought, his chest clenched and something filled his throat and for some reason he reached down onto the floor and picked up Potter's robe and threw it over him, then walked away without looking back.


	39. Portus Aperio

Seriously? I give you smut, and no one leaves a comment? I'm crushed.

**Chapter 39: Portus Aperio**

Draco woke on Saturday morning with a pounding headache. He groaned as he rolled over and vaguely wished that he had stayed the night in the Room if only to have a more expedient way to deal with his nagging erection. Instead, a hangover potion and a long, hot wank the in shower would have to do.

Potter didn't show up for breakfast so Draco didn't see him until Apparition lessons before lunch, when he came stumbling in late, looking about as rough as Draco felt. Draco studiously avoided making eye-contact, though, unsure what he might see. Apparition lessons were, predictably, boring. A few people were lightly splinched, but most of the students, Draco included, made no visible progress at all.

Potter had practice that afternoon, Draco knew, so he decided to return to the Room and try to unspell at least one of the bloody wards on the bloody cabinet, but by dinner time he was ready to give up on the whole project and he spent the entire meal sneering at his house mates and abusing the staff. That cheered him up, marginally.

Potter caught his eye when the meal was nearly finished, and Draco thought he saw something like confusion. He didn't know how to respond to that, so he just glared and turned back to his own table. Potter stood abruptly and left the hall.

_Now what?_ Draco rose and followed him a few minutes later, and found himself, predictably, pulled into the dark abandoned classroom.

Potter stood looking at him in the dark, and Draco couldn't help scoffing at him.

"I fell asleep," Potter said. Draco sneered.

"Yes," he answered. What was he supposed to say to that?

"You left..." Potter mumbled, running a nervous hand through his hair.

"I have my own bed, thanks."

"It wasn't because… you didn't...?" Potter stammered.

_Gods_ the boy is _insufferable_. "Spit it out."

"Because you didn't like it," Potter ground out.

"Don't be daft Potter, I got off, didn't I? And I got you off, too. What more do want from me?"

"Nothing," Potter whispered, and Draco heard 'a lot more than I'm willing to admit.' He considered the boy for a minute, somewhat appeased to see that he at least had the grace to look embarrassed by his stupidity and obsessive neediness.

_Oh, why not?_

"Next Friday, after curfew," Draco ordered more than suggested. "This time you can bring the drinks," Draco smirked and walked out of the room.

* * *

His mother's letter arrived, as usual, with a box of sweets on Monday morning at breakfast. Draco opened them with a sneer and tossed them to the table, and they were quickly gobbled up by the more daring students. He made sure Harper got a handful to pass out to his minions, and permitted Pansy to control access on her end of the table. She smirked and immediately began teasing Millie, going on and on about how much she admired her for not bothering to worry about her weight. Millie blushed and scowled, ultimately rejecting the proffered treats. Draco smirked.

He'd almost forgotten the letter, and opened it carelessly, but when he started to read it, his face wrinkled into a frown. A glance beside him revealed that Greg and Vincent were watching him carefully, and he quickly schooled his features into a careless sneer before turning back to the scroll.

_My Darling Draco,_

_I hope you are doing well in school. You know how much your father believes in a good, strong education and we are so proud of you. _

Draco scanned down the page for the part that had given him paused just now.

_The Manor has been busier of late. We've entertained numerous charming guests, all quite concerned for my well-being and for the safety and security of the property. You're father's associates have been so kind to check in regularly, in particular the last week. Do thank their children for me, when you can. _

_With Love, Your Mother_

_P.S. __I imagine Potions just isn't the same without our dear friend teaching, please remember me to him._

Draco tucked the letter into his pocket and continued the meal without remark, but as soon as he saw Snape leaving the head table he excused himself and hurried to meet him on the stairs.

"I had a letter from Mother," he called out, trying to sound casual. Snape turned and frowned.

"You needn't update me on your personal life, Mr. Malfoy."

"Read it," Draco said, thrusting the scroll into his hand.

Snape looked down, then sneered. "Darling, indeed…"

Draco huffed and pointed at the lines further down. He watched Snape's black eyes flashed across the page and his brown turning into a gentle frown.

"I see…" he said at length.

"You have to go to her. You have to get her out," Draco whispered. He knew he was pleading and it was all pointless, but the prospect of Crabbe and Goyle visiting her alone in that house was terrifying.

"_She_ is not my responsibility," he said, but before Draco could protest, he had swept away. Draco frowned and replayed the words, and this time he heard, 'I will do my best to help her, for you,' and breathed more easily.

Draco received no further missives and he hesitated to send anything out beyond an assurance that he was committed to school and a promise to write more often. All the mail was being read by the Goddamn Ministry, of course, but he was fairly sure that the Dark Lord had his own system of interception, particularly with regard to his own followers.

* * *

Feeling increasingly nervous as the week progressed, and unwilling to wallow in his impotence, Draco cut his classes Friday to work in the Room. He had never really cut classes before without a good reason, but trying to save his mother from a pair of sadistic henchmen seemed like a pretty good reason.

Unspelling household wards is a matter of undoing knots. A ward like the ones on the cabinet can be visualised like a thread, and when they are spelled in groups, the threads twist, or sometimes knot, so that one has to physically coax the ward-threads apart enough to cast a counter-spell at just the right thread, without activating the others. A counter-spell against water-damage, for example, is likely to set off the ward against fire, which Draco learned the hard way when he was repeatedly drenched. The cabinet, of course, remained dry. Naturally an attempt to deactivate the anti-fire ward set off the anti-water ward, and a burst of flames surrounded him. They dried his robes, which were flame-retardant of course, but he was not able to stop a few of the tongues from lapping at the edges of his hair, singeing it. Damn cabinet. Someone with a cruel sense of humour had entangled those two wards together.

Eventually, though, he managed to unspell the anti-fire and anti-water damage wards, leaving only a third spell shimmering in blue.

It was not a thread, but a glowing aura that surrounded the back surface of the cabinet, and Draco suspected this was the original pairing spell that had connected the two cabinets.

Three hours later, he had not even managed to identify the spell, much less begin to think how to deactivate it.

He slumped on the floor drove his fingers into his temples. He stared at the glowing blue spell.

And then it came crashing over him.

How could he have been so stupid? Why was he wasting his time thinking about the old connection? The old spell was on the outer surface, he needn't even think about it! He just needed to cast a new _portus_ on the inner surface and ignore the old one.

He stood up and opened the cabinet door. Holding his wand up and pointing at the inner surface, which glowed with the charmed potion as soon as his wand was near it.

"_Portus aperio,_" he said loudly, and a yellow thread shot from his wand onto the wood and then immediately bounded back to the tip of his wand, then faded.

His heart was thumping in his chest and he could hardly hear his own steps as he walked toward the cabinet and reached in. His fingers drifted closer and closer to the wooden barriers, and then…

They disappeared…

They slipped through the wood like it was nothing more than dust in the air.

Whoa.

Wait... _Whoa._

He'd done it! Well, he could be reasonably sure he'd done it, though he'd need to sequester an owl or an elf to test it, but… he'd done it!

Draco was about to whoop for joy when he heard footsteps in the hall outside. He cast a _tempus_. _Shit_. It was already past curfew. He heard someone outside, fumbling with the knob, and froze, thinking it could have been any number of people he really didn't want to meet… and then…

Oh, right. _Potter._


	40. Male

Hey, look! A review button!

Just a word of warning – things might be looking fluffy right now, and I sincerely apologize, but I wanted to give you, and Draco, something to hold on to because, well, you remember what happens on Ron's birthday, right?

**Chapter 40: Male**

Potter arrived with butterbeer and a bottle of some cheap muggle vodka. It was horrible, of course, but the burn was pleasant and the effect strong.

After a quick swig for both of them, Potter led the way, shrugging off his robe and toeing out of his shoes, before climbing up onto the bed and leaning back against the headboard to open a bottle of butterbeer.

Draco raised an eyebrow but followed suit, removing his robe and shoes and stealing several of Potter's pillows to prop them up against one of the posts at the foot of the bed. Potter tossed him a bottle.

It was… odd… to be sitting there. But Draco was feeling celebratory after his brilliant accomplishment.

Imagine: a way into Hogwarts, and he'd created it! Who would ever have thought it could be so easy? Though immediately after that thought he found himself trying to block out images of that muggle woman who'd served as the test subject for his first protean potion, and his three weeks of imprisonment after being caught at Borgin's… 'easy' wasn't quite the word. But he'd managed it, and that was something.

So Draco was feeling celebratory. Not that he was willing to go so far as to be _nice_ or _friendly_ with Potter, per se, but sitting cross-legged on opposite ends of the bed drinking like this was almost… tolerable.

And despite being a stupid Gryffindor git with terrible taste in clothes, friends, and alcohol, he wasn't entirely bad company. At least he didn't talk too much.

Of course, the moment he thought that, Potter opened his mouth.

"Truth or Dare?"

"What are you, a third year?" Draco scoffed.

"Scared?"

"I am not your friend, Potter, and I am not playing Truth or Dare with you." Draco snapped, crossing his arms. "Besides, you can't play with only two people…" he added reasonably.

Potter rolled his eyes in that infuriating way that made Draco want to wring his neck, and reached for the bottle of vodka again, producing two shot glasses from a pocket.

Holding up the bottle, he said, "How about – never have I ever?"

"Sorry what?" Couldn't they just drink in brooding silence like normal people?

"It's probably muggle," Potter said lightly, as though that shouldn't bother anybody at all. Draco watched him suspiciously as he poured out two shots and placed one in front of each of them. The glasses teetered a bit on the bed, and out of exasperation Draco sat up and snatched his.

"Look, I'll go first," Potter offered, as though Draco should be grateful for that. "Never have I ever kissed Pansy Parkinson…"

Potter looked at him expectantly. Finally he sighed and said, "Malfoy, drink! Because I know you've kissed the bint, I had to watch it."

"Don't remind me," Draco groaned, and drank. He was pleased, for some reason, when Potter laughed.

"Alright, now you go."

"Never have I ever… kissed a Weasel… sorry, Weasley… no, no, I had it right the first time: Weasel."

Potter rolled his eyes but drank his shot, scooting closer to pour them each another one.

Draco considered him for a few seconds, then finally asked, because he couldn't hold back…

"Presumably… Ginny?"

"Of course!" Potter exclaimed, sitting up in agitation. "All the rest are…" but he stopped himself… blushing.

Then Potter's eyes narrowed and he scooted himself closer to the middle of the bed and said in a quiet, but challenging voice, "Never have _I_ ever kissed a boy who isn't in this room right now."

They stared at each other for a long time. But neither of them drank.

And then Potter took another turn, "Never have I ever been with another boy… like this."

And somehow they were sitting rather closer together than they had been, and Draco looked up into Potter's eyes and met his gaze with a raised eyebrow, daring him to go on, his calm expression belying the pounding in his chest.

"Never have I ever…" Potter started. They were cross-legged in front of each other now, and Draco's breath caught as their knees brushed together. Potter was breathing more rapidly now, too. "Never have I ever… thought I would want you… to…"

Potter leaned in closer, but didn't finish, so Draco leaned in, too, brushing his lips against Potter's cheek, "to what…?" he asked, nipping Potter's earlobe. Potter shivered, but instead of answering, he brought a hand up behind Draco's neck and pulled back to press their lips together.

Instantly the glasses and bottles were forgotten as they came up onto their knees, fingers frantically tearing at buttons and ties and pulling at zippers, struggling with sleeves and pant legs and bloody socks until finally, finally they were both naked and there was so… much… skin…

Draco felt dizzy and breathless and vaguely self conscious, but the vodka had flushed his face and dulled his senses just enough that he did not care about his thin arms or bony knees of the childish hairlessness of his chest. He didn't care because Potter's lips were pressed against his again, tongues colliding and sliding, fingers and palms stroking and tracing and pressing and probing.

At some point Draco managed to catch his breath long enough to reach for a pillow behind him.

"Lie down," he ordered, "and put this under you," his voice was hoarse with need, and Potter scrambled to obey. He rolled onto his belly, the pillow lifting and exposing his arse. Draco let his hands glide over the soft mounds of flesh, and quickly pulled his hand back to smack him twice in rapid succession. Running his hands gently over the warm, reddened flesh, he pulled the two soft mounds apart, parting the thighs with his own, and whispered a cleaning charm. Potter shivered. Draco held him open with one hand and spanked him again, this time right over his quivering entrance, and Potter cried out and pressed back towards him.

Draco smirked and released a hot breath onto the wrinkled pucker before sliding his tongue over it, laving in broad, wet strokes, hands kneading and pulling him open, licking and sucking on the tight ring of muscle, alternating between hot wet tongue and puffs of cool dry air, dragging the tip of his tongue in torturously slow circles, until Potter was writhing and keening. Finally Draco pressed the tip of a spit-slick thumb against his entrance, and Potter pressed back, until Draco entered him as deeply as he could, then crooked it, and Potter gasped in surprise, "oh, oh, oh do _that_ again…" but Draco held still until Potter whined and bucked.

Finally he begged, "_please_," and then Draco pulled out his thumb and slipped two fingers in, thrusting them slowly but firmly, brushing over Potter's prostate once he found it again. Potter moaned and writhed, and pretty soon Draco's cock was so hard and leaking that he couldn't wait another second.

He muttered a lubrication charm and started slicking his cock, but when he removed his fingers and moved to position himself, Potter stopped him, saying "not like this."

And then Potter was up and turned around and pressing Draco down onto his back. Potter climbed onto him and leaned down to kiss him. Draco was too surprised by this suddenly confident partner that he could do little more than run his hands down to grip the soft flesh of Potter's arse, kneading and pulling the two mounds apart, and Potter moaned into his mouth.

And then Potter reached down to grip Draco's cock and guide it up against his wet, waiting hole and Draco reached down to help as Potter released him and reached back to spread himself apart and then _oh gods_ now Potter was bearing down on him, and it was all Draco could do to stop himself ramming up into that tight hot heat. He tried to breathe and focus on holding the base of this cock steady as Potter's hot, hot, hot and _ohmygods tight _virgin arse lowered onto him.

When Draco was fully sheathed, he looked up to see Potter's face twisted in pain, eyes closed, obviously fighting tears. Draco held still while Potter remained frozen, apparently trying to adjust to the pressure inside him. Finally Draco stretched out his hands to gently stroke the hard, flat surface of Potter's chest, and he felt the body above him exhale, and relax a little, and the rippling pressure around his cock lessened slightly. Potter took a few more breaths, relaxing more with each exhale.

Draco stroked the soft skin of his flat chest, tracing the sharp angles of his shoulder bones, and ribs, and narrow, protruding hips, and gazed at the hard cock jutting out towards him, balls already tightened. Strong, muscular thighs gripped his sides, and broad, calloused hands held onto his hips, and Draco felt his chest clenching and his throat tighten and he had to close his eyes because it was all threatening to be too much… too _right_. Potter was everything Pansy was not. He was hard, and smooth, and sharp, and rough, and quintessentially, undeniably, irresistibly, devastatingly _male_.

And then Potter began to move over him slowly, experimenting with the angle, struggling to relax and find a rhythm, and Draco tried his best to just be still and let Potter figure it out because frankly it was all too good and if he so much as thrust up into him he was sure he would come.

Potter was still moving when suddenly he cried out, and Draco looked up to see his eyes wide and mouth open in surprise… or revelation… and now Potter was riding him in earnest, leaning back and holding onto his own ankles for support. His cock, impossibly hard, glistened and bobbed against Draco's stomach and Draco closed his eyes and bit his lip to stifle the moans that he knew were escaping him. And then Potter was murmuring again, and he strained through the haze of his pleasure to hear his words growing louder, "oh fuck, oh fuck… _Draco_ it's… it's so… fucking… _good_…" and then Draco stopped trying to control himself, and reaching out to grasp Potter's cock and stroke it as his hips thrust up into Potter's tight heat. They both cried out as Potter's cock pulsed in his hand, hot come streaking across Draco's chest, and Draco felt the walls surrounding him rippling and gripping him and he felt his orgasm torn from his body as he emptied himself into this boy who just called him by his given name.

* * *

Draco woke to a buzzing somewhere in the vicinity of his left arm. He groaned, and shoved at Potter, who groaned back and rummaged through the sheets until he retrieved the offending object. Draco opened one eye to see Potter flourish his wand to end the alarm. Potter looked over at him sheepishly.

"It's Saturday, you dolt," Draco groaned, covering his head with a sheet.

"I know… but it's Ron's birthday, they'll notice if I'm not there when he gets up."

Draco grunted_. Fine, more bed for me_.

"Look," Potter began, hurriedly climbing over him onto the floor and throwing on his clothes, "stay here. I'll come back with breakfast."

"Pardon?" Draco asked through the sheet over his head. Surely he hadn't heard that correctly.

He could practically _hear_ Potter blushing as he mumbled, "you know, I could bring us something to eat. It's Saturday, we could… just… stay for a while."

"Well I'm certainly not getting up anytime soon," Draco drawled. He could practically _hear_ Potter grinning_. Tosser._

But once Potter had turned and walked away, Draco looked out from under the sheets to watch him sauntering down the corridor and out of sight. He smirked in spite of himself.


	41. Poison

TrinityLost: thank you, as always, for your comments. I'm glad you liked my sort-of realistic sex. And I agree that there must be something more between them or it wouldn't be worth the risk, but Draco is so in denial about his emotions about everything (DL, Snape, etc) that he really doesn't get it. Poor boy. Also, glad you saw the parallel between Potter-sex and Pansy-sex.

blublublublub: thank you! but I can't promise you an all-out change to the light for Draco. He's still going to end up on the astronomy tower pointing a wand...

septemberbeauty13: as always, thank you!

**Chapter 41: Poison**

Draco slept for another hour before waking tangled in the bed sheets, stomach rumbling, and needing the loo. He debated about simply leaving Potter hanging, but the prospect of a repeat of the night before proved too alluring, and in the end he dressed and snuck down to the Slytherin to use the loo and get changed, and then went back up to the Room with a stack of homework, to wait.

A twelve-inch essay and two chapters of reading later, Draco decided that Potter really was the most self-centred, arrogant arsehole he had ever met. Ever. Better to get out of there before Potter came back and realized the Draco had stupidly believed him, or actually wanted to spend time with him, or anything as absurd as that.

He hurriedly packed his things and stalked down to the Slytherin common room just in time to head out for lunch.

But when he arrived in the Great Hall, the whispering was unmistakeable. For a horrible second, Draco imagined himself to be the topic of furious gossip, but no one seemed to notice him when he entered, and all eyes were, predictably, at the Gryffindor table. He glanced over as he sat down, and noticed several conspicuous absences. Potter and his posse, Girl-Weasel included, were no where to be seen.

"Draco, darling, isn't it wonderful? The Weasel-King out of commission the week before a match," Pansy crooned from across the table where she sat draped across Blaise's lap.

Draco schooled his features to imply that, of course, he knew exactly what was going on, and listened intently for clues.

By dinner-time, he had surmised the following: the Weasel, being an absolute idiot, swallowed an out-of-date love potion, Potter had rushed him to Slughorn's rooms and used a Bezoar to counter it, and now the whole Weasel-Brood was in the Hospital wing.

Frankly Draco doubted the Bezoar part of the story entirely, because Bezoars only work on poison, not love-potions. More than likely, Potter was claiming the credit for Slughorn's antidote.

Of course, that didn't explain why the Weasel was in the hospital. But then again, the way this bloody school coddles its beloved Gryffindors, and in particular Potter's little posse, there's really no surprise there.

Draco was scowling his way through the dungeon doing prefect rounds that night when a tripping jinx hit curled around his shin and he slammed against the cold stone floor.

Instantly he was up on his feet, wand drawn, when Potter materialized from under his bloody cloak.

"What the fuck, Potter?" He managed to get out, but Potter moved too fast and he felt a fist colliding with his jaw, throwing him off balance. Rage and indignation bubbled up over the shock and he swung back, jagging him in the ribs. In a tangle of fists and knees and nails, Potter managed to break Draco's nose and, pulling his hair like a bloody girl, yank him down onto his knees. Ropes shot out to tie Draco's arms to his sides.

"I'm going to fucking kill you Malfoy!" Potter hissed, aiming a kick at his back.

"What the fuck?" Draco spat, trying not to reveal how completely believable that threat felt at the moment, down here in a deserted dungeon corridor, where no one might find him for days. But bloody-hell, why?

"You nearly killed my best friend you fucking arsehole and I'm going to fucking kill you."

"What the fuck are you talking about, Potter?" His voice was venomous but more panicked than he wanted.

"He was poisoned!"

_Gods, what an idiot!_ Draco thought. _This is about the Weasel? _"Why would I slip love-potion to your beloved vermin?" Draco drawled. "And since when is a love-potion poison?"

"Not the fucking love-potion, the bottle!"

Draco's stomach dropped and he screwed up his face into a sneer to disguise the panic rising up his spine. "What bottle?"_ Probably the bottle of love-potion_, his rational mind supplied.

"That bottle of mead _you_ left at Slughorn's party. _You_ poisoned the bottle, _you_ gave Katie the necklace. It's _you_, it's been _you _all along!"

A trickle of cold panic ran down Draco's spine but he rallied. "First of all, how would I get poison through the censors, and how the hell could I be in the castle and in Hogsmeade at the same time? And fuck's sake, why?"

"Don't." Potter cut him off with a well aimed kick to the gut. "Don't even start, Malfoy, I know it's you. I knew it and I didn't want to believe it." He grabbed a fistful of hair and pulled, yanking Draco's head back, "What did Voldemort order you to do? Stir up panic by murdering innocent students?"

Draco flinched at the name, then ground out, "Fuck you, Potter."

"Never, ever again, you fucking faggot." Potter spat, his eyes flaming with a rage that made Draco heart race. "I can't believe I…" he breathed, at though he was in pain. But he swallowed whatever he was going to say in favour of a punch to the jaw and Draco crashed onto his side with a thud, arms still bound to his sides.

Potter squatted down by his head and whispered, "You _disgust_ me." Then he stomped on Draco's side, and Draco heard something crunch, as searing pain spread out his side. He felt the ropes around him dissipating into thin air, as Potter's loping footsteps receded down the dark corridor. He couldn't move. And he couldn't breathe.

The pain in his back was making him nauseas, and his chest seized up, making it impossible to draw breath. He tried to call for help, but all that came out was a wet sort of gurgle, and he felt the nausea rising in his throat at the taste of blood in his mouth. Panicking, he struggled to reach his wand, gritting his teeth as the pain increased when he stretched out his arm.

Finally he felt his fingers closing around the familiar wood, and closed his eyes, trying to conjure something, anything, happy, but everything was corrupted. His father in prison, his mother in danger, Potter betrayed. Everything was going horribly wrong, there was no hope, no safety…

But just as darkness was threatening to swallow him, he remembered the feel of strong, soap-slick palms and a rough washcloth and a room full steam, and he whispered in his last breath, barely registering the flash of silvery smoke that shot from his wand and went gliding down the hallway.

* * *

Severus was pacing in his room. Albus had been furious, of course, but he'd been furious rather a lot lately. And the boy… how could he be so stupid, reckless, irresponsible… _gods. _He spun on his heal and turned toward his study, when a light flew through the wall to his chamber. His head whipped around to see a weak, barely detectable _patronus_… some kind of bird, maybe? A crow? He didn't recognize the form, but the faint voice issuing from it was unmistakable. _Draco_.


	42. Patronus

_Miss Kandy Whitlock_: Thank you! All I can tell you is that they will eventually reconcile, but please don't expect a happy ending here… Draco still has to end up on the Astronomy tower and in the end, he has to leave and return to the Dark Lord.

_aweebuoy: _Thank you! Yes 'volatile' is _exactly_ the right word for these two, both in the canon and in my interpretation, I think.

_septemberbeauty13:_ It _hurt _to write that line! But Potter is clearly dealing with some serious internalised homophobia, as will become clear in his upcoming fling with GW. Whereas Draco might finally be coming to terms with himself, Potter really hasn't yet.

_palcica:_ hmm, yes, and no. I mean, yes he's been reckless, but it's not like he could have anticipated that anyone would actually drink from the bottle. In fact, he was expected Slughorn to detect the poison, if you recall. But then again, I'm much more sympathetic to him than most people.

_blackcurrent:_ Thank you for your comments. I know what you mean, it's a challenge to formulate Draco's motives. I'm sure the Order could save his mother, but he would have to ask them, and trust them, which he doesn't. Moreover, he believes that turning to them would be a betrayal of Snape, which is heart-wrenching for us, because of course we know where Snape's loyalties really lie.

**Chapter 42: Patronus**

Severus rushed out of his rooms and into the dungeon hallways. He sent out a _revelio_ and followed the pale green thread as it led him around winding corridors to a dark corner where the a body lay, curled up, struggling to breathe.

A quick scan revealed the problem – a broken rib had punctured the lung, he wasn't getting any air.

He rolled the boy onto his back and tore open the robe and shirt to expose a bruised, misshapen chest. He fished in his pockets for a vial, transfigured it into a tube, one end cut at a diagonal, then drove it between two intact ribs. The body jerked up at the pain, but immediately a hiss of air told him the fix had worked. Murmuring unintelligibly, Draco opened his eyes, but Severus ignored him in favour of healing his ribs the best be could and fixing his broken nose. The bruises would need salve, and they'd have to heal the punctured lung, too.

"Professor," Draco mumbled, turning to face him where he was inspecting the site of his temporary fix. Blood was oozing out of the tube, which means there was blood in the lungs. _Shit_.

"I need to move you, can you stand?" he asked, his voice calm and quiet.

Draco nodded, then winced as though nodding itself had been painful. Severus considered for another second, then decided simply to carry the stupid boy to his rooms.

* * *

Draco woke up on a cot. A suspiciously familiar cot, in front of a fire, in a dark dungeon room. Snape sat nearby at his desk, leaned back in his chair, eyes closed. A flood of relief washed over Draco. Snape had come for him. Snape had found him. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, but his chest ached. Everything ached as his senses returned to him. He closed his eyes and groaned in pain.

"Stupid boy," were the first words he heard from Snape's mouth, and Draco felt his lips quirking at the familiar endearment, despite the pain in his head and chest. He opened his eyes again to see Snape regarding him with an anger that he hoped was masking concern. "You nearly killed another student today, Draco. How could you be so irresponsible, reckless, and bloody idiotic?"

"How was I supposed to know that bloody Weasel would drink it?" Draco muttered defensively, wincing at the pain in his back as he tried to move.

"Anyone could have, that is the precisely the point," Snape shot back.

"Well then Slughorn is the idiot, how did he not detect poison on his own bottle? What kind of Potions Master is that stupid?"

Snape frowned at him, and Draco realized he might have said too much.

"Another student nearly died today because of you, is that what you want?" Snape asked in a dangerously quiet voice. "Do you want to be a killer, Draco?" It sounded like Snape was honestly asking him, as though he genuinely wanted to know.

"I don't bloody-well have much of a choice, do I?" Draco mumbled.

"You would if you would let me help you, Draco. Has it occurred to you, even once, how much I am risking by trying to help you? No. You are as ungrateful and self-centred as you ever were."

The words, though spoken at barely a whisper, stung Draco more than he had expected. Before he could stop himself, he blurted out,

"I'm sorry." Snape didn't respond, but simply scowled. Draco fiddled with a loose thread on the blanket that covered him.

"If you insist on imposing on my hospitality, at least do me the favour of not destroying my linens."

Draco's stilled his hands, a smirk twitching at the sides of his lips.

"How did you find me?" he asked. Snape frowned as though he had no idea what Draco was talking about. "I tried to a cast a… _patronus_."

"A pathetic attempt," Snape snorted.

"What… what did it look like?" It was a stupid question to ask, but he'd never gotten it to work before, and he wanted to know.

"Like a poorly cast _patronus_," Snape answered curtly, and stepped over to a tea-tray and pouring one for Draco the way he liked it (lots of milk, a little sugar), then one for himself (black, lemon).

Draco accepted the cup and tried to mask his disappointment. Finally, Snape answered him, "a bird of some sort. A crow. Perhaps a raven."

Draco smiled at that, and looked at the man for a moment. Before he could stop himself, he whispered, "that makes sense."

Snape pretended to ignore him, but when Draco didn't elaborate, he finally conceded his curiosity but dismissing Draco's statement entirely. "The shape that a _patronus_ takes is out of the conjurer's control."

Draco nodded absently, then remarked offhand, "I was thinking about you," as though that were a perfectly reasonable thing to say to his professor.

"That explains why it was a dismal failure," Snape sneered, one eyebrow raised derisively.

Draco shrugged. "I couldn't think of anything else."

Snape was silent, and Draco hoped both that he would, and that he wouldn't, ask what memory in particular he'd had in mind.

Instead, he said, "Potter did this." It wasn't a question, it was a statement, and it occurred to Draco then that Snape had no way of knowing how he'd ended up bleeding in a hallway, although Potter would have been the logical conclusion.

Draco nodded. Snape stepped over to him now, and pulled an armchair up to the cot, pulling back the blanket to reveal the extend of his injuries. His chest was black and blue, and there was a fresh-looking puncture wound along his right rib cage. He fingered it gingerly, and winced.

"You nose and jaw are healed. The bruise on your shoulder will disappear with salve. There was minimal internal bleeding. A broken rib punctured your lung, I had to insert a makeshift tube." Draco shuddered at the thought, remembering the constriction in his chest and the panic he had felt. He looked up at the man with a reverence that made him almost choke. He looked away, rather than expose himself.

"Why did you fight?" Snape asked, but Draco shook his head, gritting his teeth. The reality of Potter's very-close-to-the-mark-accusations and the hurt of having _that word_ spat his face was more than he was willing to admit to Snape.

"It was nothing," he said, looking away.

"Draco, look at me," Snape ordered, and Draco complied, only to see Snape's wand raised and feel the tickle of his mind being invaded. He tried to close himself down, but Snape's legimency was too powerful.

Scenes flashed in front of him: _Classroom trysts, the Room, the Bed, Potter kissing him, and touching him, and riding him. Potter hexing him, Potter kicking him, stomping on him, spitting out the hateful words that hurt more than his fists ever could_.

Finally he felt Snape's mind retreating from him, and he looked away. He could feel Snape watching him, but the shame of it all was just too much to bear, and he couldn't look him in the eye.

Finally Snape spoke. "I'd hardly expect any better of him." His voice sounded particularly bitter, though, as if he had indeed expected better. Maybe Draco had, too.

Snape continued, "But then again, I would hardly have expected him to be so… accommodating…" Draco looked up to see a faint but wicked grin on Snape's face, which he found himself returning.

"The Boy Who Bottomed," he whispered, and Snape chuckled cruelly.

* * *

Draco managed to effectively avoid Potter for the rest of the weekend. He didn't even see the boy again until he was standing outside of the Defense classroom on Monday morning. A trip-jinx knocked him to the floor, and he hurried to his feet to find Potter stepping out from a shadow, glaring at him.

"Stay the fuck away from me, Potter," Draco said, pleased that he'd kept his voice from betrayed his trepidation. Then the force of another hex flung him against the wall, and he found himself stuck, unable to move.

"You should be so lucky, Malfoy," Potter sneered. Draco frowned, and then Potter stepped closer and spoke again, whispering in his ear. "I'm watching you. Everything you do, everywhere you go, I'm watching you. I'm going to find out what you are planning, and I'm going to stop you."

Potter turned on his heel and stalked off into the classroom. Draco felt the hex released, and he stumbled back onto his feet away from the wall. _Fuck_.


	43. Tailed

***note:** Go read _Patented Daydreaming,_ which is a side scene that fits into this story right here between Chaps 42 and 43.

_Miss Kandy Whitlock_: I know, I'm quite fond of this Snape at the moment. We'll see where it goes.

_retrocirce_: Thank you!

_casey42_: I'm glad you agree. With these two, tension is so much more satisfying than spontaneous declarations of love.

_MathewMalfoy_: Thank you, I'm so glad you're enjoying it.

_The Dabbler_: Yay! I was worried it might be too soon, but are sixteen, how much longer could I make them wait, you know?

_septemberbeauty13_: Thanks!

_xhavenofgorex_: Thank you! More to come, never fear.

Sorry for missing updates the last two days, I got swept up in another story, _Accommodations_, which you should all go read, it will give you a break from this increasingly mean!Potter.

Meanwhile, have some plot.

_[As previously, __**bold**__ lines are taken or paraphrased from the text by JKR and are not mine.]_

**Chapter 43: Tailed**

True to his word, Potter dogged Draco's steps for the next two weeks. At every turn, the bloody Gryffindor was there, taunting, threatening, hexing. Draco got his fair share of hexes in, too, but Potter's entourage was never far behind, and he rarely escaped unscathed.

One of the only times he did, in fact, get past without a scratch was during the match between Gryffindor and Hufflepuff.

As usual on a Saturday when he didn't need to play, Draco planned to go up to the seventh floor. He sat at breakfast that morning looking over at the Gryffindors, whispering furiously. The Weasel was still out of commission, and they'd brought in that beast McLaggen to take his place. McLaggen, who despite being impressively well connected, couldn't drop a subtle hint if his life depended on it. Apparently he practically assaulted the Mudblood at the Goddamn Slughorn's Goddamn Christmas Party.

He stared at Potter, who looked green, as usual, on the morning of a match. The Girl-Weasel was next him, a hand on his shoulder, saying something. Draco scowled… and then had a lovely thought.

He nodded to Greg and Vincent, who followed him out of the hall, and down to the Quidditch pitch instead of the dungeons. They transformed behind the locker rooms, and blended in perfectly with the other obnoxious Hufflepuffs. Judging his timing to be about right, Draco nodded to them to follow and they started heading back up the grounds toward the castle.

And right on cue, Potter strolled out of the front doors just as Draco and the boy/girls approached. _So predictable_, Draco laughed.

"**Where're you going?"** Potter called roughly.

**"Yeah, I'm really going to tell you, because it's your business, Potter,"** Draco drawled. **"You'd better hurry, they're all waiting for 'the Chosen Captain,' or was that… 'the Boy Who **_**Scored**_**?'"** He said that last with a leer that made Potter blush and his eyes narrow.

Girl-Greg giggled, and Potter's nostrils flared. Draco just rolled his eyes and pushed past him, shoving his shoulder harder than was necessary and fully expecting retaliation, but Potter stood rooted to the spot, apparently too furious to move. It's just too easy, Draco thought.

He paid dearly for his cockiness, though, in the coming weeks. Potter's rage apparently cost him the match, though he carefully ignored his own part in that and blamed Draco, of course, for the Weasel getting poisoned and needing to be replaced. Never mind that the Weasel was stupid enough to eat someone else's love-potion laced chocolates, and Slughorn was irresponsible enough to offer liquor to an underage student at eight in the fucking morning, (to say nothing of testing it to for poison), and Potter was too spineless to pick someone other than McLaggen for Keeper, or at least keep that arsehole from stealing the Beater's bats for fuck's sake!

But no, no, no, surely it was easier to just blame it all on Draco._ Fucking prick._

Vincent and Nott were starting to disappear together more often now, and Greg turned out to be remarkably ineffective without his other half (or perhaps he was under orders to be ineffective).

Thus, everyday, Potter seemed to find ways to corner Draco and shove him, or trip him, or set a swarm of killer pencils at him. Draco hexed him back as best he could, but that coward Potter hid under his goddamn cloak and wouldn't show his face. He didn't seem to be trying to kill him, though, which was something of a relief. It seemed more like he was trying to remind Draco, over and over, that he was always watching him.

At first, Draco took to hiding in the Study to nurse his injuries, and his pride, and just to get the hell away from everything, but paranoia quickly set in and after he saw, for the third time, the strangely familiar pointy-ears of an elf he was sure used to work in the mansion, Draco stopped visiting the seventh floor altogether, and took to hiding out with, of all people, Moaning fucking Myrtle.

She wasn't bad company, actually. She seemed terminally bound to make jokes at her own expense, which turned needling her into a strangely passive experience.

"**I promise,"** she crooned, **"I'll take your secrets to the grave!"**

_Honestly_. It was too easy.

Draco was almost relieved when, at dinner on a Friday night at the end of March, the familiar pain shot through his left arm from finger tip to shoulder-blade. He gritted his teeth to keep from gripping his arm, and glanced up to the head table to see Snape give him just the faintest nod. Oh good. They could go.

Draco was waiting outside Snape's office when Snape swept down the corridor and into the room, Draco following behind him. The pain had receded to a dull ache, and if they left soon, they could get there before the pain began to rise again. Snape appeared to be searching for something, though, and Draco was getting anxious.

He shuffled, and Snape spun around and glared at him, "what?"

"Nothing," Draco mumbled and sat down. He knew better than to provoke Snape when the Mark was burning. Draco seemed to take the pain and the drain on his willpower by collapsing into himself, but Snape apparently faced it head on, purposefully choosing to do other things, like teach, or eat, or think. After nearly a year of this, it was still unfathomable to Draco how Snape could manage that much self-control while under the influence of the Mark.

At length Snape seemed to have found what he wanted, and tucked whatever it was into his robes. Then he turned to scowl at Draco. He waved his wand and Draco felt a warming charm seeping into the fabric of his robes. "Come," he said, and Draco followed.

When they reached the alley outside the Three Broomsticks, Snape turned to him and looked at him. It was an open and thoughtful look, actually, one that Snape rarely turned to anyone, as far Draco had ever seen. Then he raised his wand and extracted all of Draco's images and memories of Potter. Scenes flashed in front of his eyes in vivid colour. And then, without comment, he removed three more scenes, Snape bathing him, and lying on the floor conjuring his _patronus, _and sitting in Snape's study, talking about it. He placed them into a vial and slipped into his pocket, and Draco nodded that he was _ready, now please so could they just please go._

Snape sneered at him, muttered something about what an 'ungrateful wretch' he was, and grasped him firmly on the elbow at they disapparated… to a frozen field. Shit… the raid.

It was dark, the sun had set, but the eery glow of a vaulted green dome surrounded them, shedding just enough light on the ground around them for Draco to see that they were standing outside on a hill of frozen grass. Others apparated nearby. Ten in all, each cloaked and masked. Draco quickly conjured his own mask, though Snape did not. For once, Snape did not immediately walk off, but rather stayed beside him, and Draco was unspeakably grateful for that.

Draco looked up at the dome. It resembled the lattice of wards Snape had put up around the house, but it was oddly aqueous looking. Snape inclined his head toward him and whispered, "Dark Mark Barrier."

"Fascinating," was all Draco said, the awe audible in his voice. Semi-permeable barriers we remarkable feats in their own right, but a bubble without walls or other barriers to anchor it? Absolutely ingenious.

Snape almost chuckled at him, but then his face grew still, and he said very quietly, "no matter what happens, stay with me, do you understand?"

His eyes were blazing and Draco nodded silently. His Mark still hurt, which meant that the Dark Lord's purpose hadn't been fulfilled yet, or they weren't at their final destination.

Then Snape stepped in front of him and spoke in a commanding voice, and the others turned around to listen to him, many with expressions of open dislike, but all with some degree of fear.

"The village in question is one mile south. You will travel in pairs, and disapparate from within the wards I will set up. The objective is quantity and speed. No playing. You are to return with two living specimens each. If we are ambushed, lead them astray. That is all."


	44. Barriers

I'm quite fond of this chapter, I'd just like to say.

**Chapter 44: Barriers**

The others broke away in pairs and cast dissolusionments before leaving the Mark Barrier and heading Southward in the direction Snape had indicated. Snape lingered, though, and Draco stayed behind him.

Finally, Snape turned around, his face hard, and said in a dangerously low voice, "you will stay with me and you will obey me, is that understood?"

Draco nodded. Snape looked at him carefully for a few more moments and then nodded, apparently satisfied, and cast dissolutionments on both of them. And then he smirked. "You're going to learn to cast a Mark Barrier tonight, I think," he said, walking after the others in his long, brisk strides.

Draco was a little stunned but scurried to keep up with him. It took them no more than fifteen minutes to reach the outskirts of the little Muggle town. They passed through a ripple of wards that the others must have thrown up, and stopped. They were in what was apparently a rather poor neighbourhood… trash lay strew in the gutters, the sidewalks were in disrepair, and only about half of the street lamps worked. The buildings themselves were nondescript blocks with tiny windows and rusting fire-escapes. A cloud of pollution hung overhead. A dilapidated playground stood nearby, swings broken, lewd graffiti adorning the slide. The town was dark and silent, but there were lights on indoors, and Draco could see the shadows of muggles going about their evenings, oblivious.

Snape began throwing up more wards, the pale threads glowing and forming a lattice before disappearing in to the night. Then he turned and began to demonstrate the way to cast the barrier, and Draco watched, his wand raised.

Snape pronounced the spell for him to hear, "_murus ancora_," and flicked his wand to cast a thread of green light which floated over to line up along the outside corner of one of the buildings, and hover. Then he cast a second one, and it floated over to line up with the corner of a building across the street. Next he stood in the middle between them and said, "_murus velum_," and the threads became like sheer curtains drawn across the street until the met around Snape's form, where he stood half in and half out of the barrier.

Draco was still on the other side and when Snape stepped through, he followed, and felt a tingle on his left arm. But he was able to pass right through.

"Now you," Snape said, and Draco imitated him. His threads wouldn't obey, though, or evaporated too soon, and on the third try Snape sneered at him, "useless child." Draco chose to hear, "pretty good," and decided he would practice when he got back to school.

Just then he heard a faint scream as four Death Eaters poured out onto the streets from two different buildings, each dragging behind two muggles, bound and gagged. Someone fired a curse at the window whence the scream had come, and Snape grumbled before calling out, "about time!"

The four Death Eaters disapparated, captives in tow, and Snape looked at his pocket watch. He fired off a seeking spell and six little threads wandered out of his wand and wove up into three further buildings, and in mere seconds each building disgorged another pair, captives floating behind them, who walked out into the street and disapparated.

Snape turned to Draco grasped his arm, and in a flash of suffocating squeezing, they landed in the front hall of the cold, dark house.

* * *

When they entered into the Dark Lord's presence, Draco was immediately struck by a horrible reek of body-odour, blood, and filth that made him gag and struggle for breath. He looked around and saw the source. In a straight line against one of the long walls stood the ten Death Eaters who had been on the raid, each with a pair of muggles bound and kneeling by their feet, facing the crowd. Their masks were down and Draco recognised some of them now: Avery, Yaxley, Dolohov, Carrows, two women and a man he didn't know, Goyle, Crabbe, and – his stomach dropped when he saw the last face: Fenrir Greyback.

The werewolf was unmistakeable. Draco had never met him before, had never seen him in person, but here he was looking every bit as ferocious as the photographs in the Daily Prophet. He snarled and spit at the captives kneeling at his feet, licking his lips licentiously. He had selected two children, a boy and a girl. They might have been twins, Draco thought.

Snape stood beside Draco and must have felt him tense, because he grasped his elbow and an tugged him gently to follow as he approached the Dark Lord. Usually Snape did this part alone, and he was confused, but Snape cast him a look that meant, "shut up and obey me," and Draco followed, standing beside and slightly behind him as he approached the Dark Lord's chair. He kept his head bowed.

"How did the boy do?" the cold, high voice asked.

"Well enough," Snape answered in a sneer.

"He did not bring any specimens with him," the Dark Lord observed, though his tone was neutral.

"He is apprenticed to me, my Lord," Snape answered silkily. "If we needed more muscle," he said, waving his hand dismissively at the men and women lining the wall, "we might have chosen Crabbe or Goyle's boys."

The Dark Lord nodded, and said, "You think he is fit to follow in your footsteps, Severus?" His tone was curious, but not derisive. Snape bowed in assent, and the Dark Lord smile, "very well."

Whispering broke out in the ranks then, and several dissatisfied grumbles arose from the wall of 'muscle,' many of whom seemed to feel that Draco had done little to warrant any sort of praise. One scathing look from Snape and they silenced, though their faces bore no less hatred.

The Dark Lord dismissed them, then, and Draco walked back to the crowd to watch as one by one the 'specimens' were examined, tortured, and sorted to be used as slaves, killed and made into inferi, or handed over to Greyback to be bitten. It was not unlike a slave auction, Draco thought. The ages and sexes ranged, and Greyback seemed extremely disappointed when two men in their thirties were handed over to him, and the children he'd taken were kept as slaves, along with a few women and one young man. Fully half were deemed unsuitable to be werewolves or slaves and were instantly cursed, their bodies floated into a pile on the back wall.

When the final captive 'specimen' was brought forward, Draco did a double take. It was a young man, about his age, with messy short brown hair that fell into his eyes, wearing glasses, and oversized clothes. Were it not for the blue of his eyes, and the slightly stockier build… but the resemblance was remarkable.

Apparently everyone else agreed, and cruel jeering and the occasional stray hex broke out as he was deposited in the middle of what was now a wide circle. Draco stared until he couldn't anymore, and finally he tore his eyes away to look at the Dark Lord, who was wearing a particularly malicious grin.

"Draco, perhaps you would like to demonstrate what you have learned under Severus' tutelage?" he asked.

Draco gulped. He knew what he would have to do. Snape had warned him weeks ago. He would have to _crucio_ the boy. But why did it have to be _this _boy?

He stepped forward and stared him, allowing his eyes to slip out of focus. If he squinted just a little he could easily be standing over Potter's bound, gagged body.

He looked at the boy… allowed himself to believe it was Potter… called on his memories of being hexed, and tripped, and humiliated. Of being punched, and kicked, and stomped on. Of lying bleeding in a dark dungeons, unable to breathe. Of hearing him spit out those hateful words.

Anger began to seethe inside of him. He allowed it coil in his stomach, rising into his chest, fuelled by every breath and expanding out through his arms and tingling in his finger tips, rising up into his clenched jaw, his glaring eyes, his pounding brain.

He pointed his wand and the spell burst from his mouth. Red light shot from his wand and into the cowering boy, and his body shook, and convulsed, screams ripped from his mouth, writhing in agony. All the anger, resentment, humiliation, loneliness, pain, and grief that Draco had been subjected to, every bitter disappointment, every moment of abject fear, every instant of doubt, and pain, of horrifying vulnerability, of unrequited need, all of it channelled into the boy at his feet. He wanted him to hurt, to suffer, to feel everything Draco had been feeling.

When a trickle of sweat beaded down into an eye, he broke the spell, and allowed his wand to drop. The boy had long ago stopped screaming, his voice too hoarse. He lay twitching at Draco's feet, eyes rolled into the back of his head, unconscious from the pain. A pang of horrible, dizzying, nauseating guilt swept over Draco at the sight and he gritted his teeth to hold it back.

He shook off the dizziness and looked around the circle to see expressions of open surprise, possibly even admiration, and certainly fear. He smirked, and turned to the Dark Lord to see him smiling horribly, a glint in his eye.

"You may be right, Severus," he said, "an Officer in the making."

Draco bowed and stepped back to the circle, and glanced around briefly to see faces darkening with envy. He straightened his shoulders lightly and met their glares with a raised chin.

But the anger, the pain, and sorrow, everything he had been projecting into the boy in front of him… it was not gone. The curse had not released him from the grip of fear and pain… instead he felt all the engergy drained from him, leaving behind a sharp, acute ache that pounded relentlessly. He felt oppressed, like he was drowning. As the adrenaline wore off and attentions turned away from, the weight of his anger, and sorrow, and bitterness weighed down on him, and with it came more guilt, guilt that threatened to crush him. He barely listened to the rest of the meeting, and when a firm hand grasped his elbow and led him away, he followed gratefully.

* * *

Once back in the familiar alley outside of the The Three Broomsticks, Snape fished in his pocket and withdrew the vial of Draco's memories and returned them. Arousal and shame and the bitterness of loss washed over him and he collapsed under the weight of his guilt. He sat there, slumped against the brick wall on the hard ground, drew his knees up into his chest, and sobbed. He thought he should have minded that Snape was watching him like this but he could not stop the tears from cascading down his cheeks. It was all too much.

Snape stood for a moment, and then heaved a sigh and slid down gracefully beside him, his long legs extending out in front, crossed at the ankle, and his arms folded across his chest like a great bat. He cast a silencing and warming charms. Draco barely paused in his heaving sobs, but heard himself asking again and again, why? why? why?

He must have spoken loudly enough for Snape to hear him, though, because Snape answered,

"The Dark Lord understands people better than anyone I have ever met," he said quietly, "except, perhaps, Albus Dumbledore."

Draco looked up at him through tear-streaked eyes but Snape's face was inscrutable as always.

"They both understand that... pain... will not break a person to your will. But the guilt of having to hurt, or even kill others..." He paused, and took an almost shaky breath. "The ultimate act of submission to any Lord is not martyrdom... but the persecution of the ones you love."

Draco stared at the man beside him as though he was seeing him... truly seeing him... for the first time. His dark eyes seemed to glow with a deep, treacherous sorrow, with years and lifetimes of pain, and guilt, and regret. It was as though a barrier between them had crumbled away, and suddenly he looked... open and almost... hopeful... in his grief. For some reason, Draco reached out, then, and took his hand. Snape turned to look at their hands, folded together, across his knee, and lifted the sleeve of Draco's robe to reveal the Dark Mark, faint in the darkness around them. He ran his fingers across it gently and looked up to meet Draco's eyes.

"I never wanted this for you," he said.

And for some reason, Draco whispered, "I'm sorry."

Not, _I'm sorry for taking the Mark_, so much as, I_'m sorry that you ever had to. I'm sorry that you will probably have to kill a man you love like a father because I cannot. I'm sorry that I need you, and I'm sorry that I am so weak..._

The hand in his squeezed, and Draco leaned against a warm, bony shoulder. Snape reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of chocolate, and handed it Draco, who chuckled, and ate it. _Snape must have known_, he thought. T_hat's what he was looking for before we left._ Slowly the warmth suffused him. They sat there in the darkness for long, quiet minutes, before rising mutely and walking back toward the castle.


	45. Vanished

Responses to all your comments are at the bottom :)

**Chapter 45: Vanished**

"_Murus velum_" Draco murmured as quietly as possible in the dark hallway. Potter would probably show up any minute, because no matter how many _finites_ Draco cast on himself, he could not manage to shake whatever trace Potter had on him. Maybe it was just the elves. Either way, he didn't have long. Potter was in Herbology on all the way out in the Greenhouses and Draco had ditched for this very reason, to buy a little extra time, to set up the Barrier and test the bloody cabinet.

The threads of light alligned on either side of the hallway slowly spread out into shimmering curtains and closed around him. The stones of the castle walls groaned but didn't give. Draco wondered how many Mark Barriers have ever been cast in this place. _Probably not many_.

It was doomed to fail, he realized now. Of course. If he could get his benign wards to hold, such a Dark spell he'd never successfully cast before was hardly going to.

He knew the Barrier had failed the minute he stepped up to the cabinet. No sooner had his finger brushed the handle, muffled kneazle stowed in a cage in his other hand… did the spell he'd set tingle in his arm and he knew, like a awareness that entered his mind from the outside, that the Barrier hadn't held. It had worked like a alert ward: someone had passed through. Someone without a Dark Mark.

And of course, that someone was Potter.

He didn't need to see the bastard. All he needed to see was the door opening on it's own accord, then closing again, to know Potter was in the Room, and Draco needed to either hide, or… well… no he needed to hide.

He should have known better, though.

Well, there was nothing for it.

The moment he'd seen the door opening to the apparently empty corridor outside, he'd dropped the kneazle cage, pulled the handle, leapt into the cabinet, and closed the door behind him.

It was… remarkably spacious. He found himself sitting in a space that ought to have been triangular, like the cabinet itself, but which was square-shaped.

If he sat in the middle, he could feel the opposing currents of wind – one warm, carrying light, through the cracks in the door through which he'd just come… the other cold, and smelling of vinegar, and some vague mumbling, coming through the cracks in the door on the other side.

If he sat right in the middle, he could literally span across miles and miles of space by stretching his arms in either directions.

Truly, this was a remarkable device.

"Malfoy! I know you're in here!" The harsh voice called him back to himself. _Potter. Fuck_. He dared to peek through the crack in the doors, but he couldn't see anything. And then, a footstep right outside the cabinet, and a whimpering kneazle, found and released, now sniffing at his hiding place. _Great._ Draco felt himself sliding further and further back into the opposite side of the space, closer and closer to the opposite door.

"What are you talking about, Borgin?" a gruff voice was spitting on the other side of that door.

"Curious he didn't mention it… the young Mr. -" but the rest of the sentence was garbled, and Draco tried not to listen.

Through the crack of light on the other side of his box of space, he could hear Potter rummaging. "Malfoy! I'll send a search charm through this place to find you if I have to!"

Draco distantly wondered whether Potter knew a seeking charm that would be fast enough to go through that whole room anyway, much less would search inside of magically sealed spaces. But this was Potter, so it was certainly possible.

"Yes he asked me to keep-" a submissive voice was explaining behind him.

In front of him, he heard the tiny metal clinking of the handle on the cabinet. Potter was going to open it. Fuck.

On instinct, Draco scooted just a little further back, so that he was almost entirely in the space belonging to the other cabinet, the one in Knockturn Alley.

He wasn't really sure when it happened… when the last of himself passed through the barrier… but instantly the light on the other side, the light he'd been watching, was gone. He reached out and hit a wall. A flat wall. "Fuck," he swore quietly to himself.

Behind him, the smell of vinegar and dust in the faint light of the store, and sudden, eery silence. He was in Borgin and Burkes. And he wasn't entirely sure how to get back.

So, hiding in a vanishing cabinet: not one of the smartest decisions Draco had made this year. Granted, in the last year or so, he'd made a lot of astonishingly bad decisions.

He allowed the implications to sink in.

He'd left school.

No one knew he was here.

He had his wand, and clothes, and some galleons in his pocket. Well, Gringott's was right down the road anyway, so money wasn't a problem.

Maybe this was actually his big chance. He wouldn't be missed for hours, there was more than enough time to floo from The Leaky or take the Knight Bus if the manor wards blocked him. He could get to his mother, and she could apparate them away.

Hope of a kind he hadn't felt since his father was taken away sprang up within him and he believed… _knew_… it would be ok. He hadn't meant to do it today, but why the hell not?

Emboldened, he turned in his newly cramped space and peered through the crack in the doors. Whoever had been out in the storefront was apparently gone because he couldn't see or hear anyone. Slowly, he inched open the cabinet door, wand raised, peering out.

Borgin's stunner hit him before the door was even half open.

* * *

Draco came to feeling cold and sore. He was distantly aware that it was dark on the other side of his eyelids, but he didn't open his eyes. He tried to lie as still as possible, to continue to feign unconsciousness, while he catalogued his situation.

He was… on the floor, somewhere. Not a floor, though. A ground. He was definitely outside on the ground because he could feel the bristles of dry grass on his cheek and he could smell the dirt. He was outside, but in an enclosure. There was flapping, and rustling. A tent? Ok, so he was lying on the ground in a tent, possibly. His cheek was on the grass because he was lying on his side, and his hands were touching each other because… he gulped… because they were tied at the wrists behind his back. And his legs were stacked on top of each, also tied. The restraints felt physical, not magical, which was somewhat alarming and foreign.

He considered the most likely reasons for his predicament. Borgin might secretly be a perverted serial killer. Or… no, secret psycho killer still seemed like the most likely bet.

He opened his eyes.

Well, he'd been right about the tent, at least.

He looked around – there was a haunting red and orange flickering and the occasional gust of warm air blowing in from outside. A fire? And he heard voices laughing, yelling. And then a blood-curdling howl.

And then: frantic whispering just outside the tent. He could see their shadows thrown against the fabric walls by the light of the fire outside. Two men in robes and cloaks, bowed together, arguing. One of them was tall, and lean, and stood slightly hunched. He was much more still than other, who was shorter and gesticulated wildly. They were arguing.

Draco strained to listen.

"If you bite him, he'll be expelled," the tall man insisted. Something about the man's voice was familiar, but he couldn't place it.

"I don't care!" the other one growled, storming past his companion and stepping into the tent to glower at him.

Backlit by the light of the flames, Fenrir Greyback could not have looked more menacing. His hair and clothes glowed at the edges like he was on fire, and his eyes were dark and cruel. He licked his licks and stalked toward Draco, and Draco suddenly understood exactly what conversation he'd overheard in Borgin's shop.

Fuck.

Fucking fuck.

"Fenrir!" the other man barked, stepping into the doorway to the tent now, too. Greyback turned around to look at him and Draco saw the man in the light of the flames outside, but it took him a few seconds to recognize him as… Professor Lupin?

"The Dark Lord wants him in place," Lupin growled warningly, and Greyback seemed to waver… dancing back and forth on the balls of his feet as though trying to make up his mind. But why was Lupin talking about the Dark Lord?

"The Dark Lord should know about his indiscretions," Greyback countered, but he didn't sound convinced.

Lupin shook his head. "You've seen how he is with the boy," he spat, throwing Draco a crude glare. "Fuck! Two weeks ago he practically named him Snape's successor."

Greyback visibly bristled at the mention of Snape, which Draco only vaguely noticed because he was so busy trying to comprehend what Lupin was implying. Had he been there? Had he been at the meeting behind one of those masks, watching, in service to the Dark Lord? Was Lupin a Death Eater, too?

It seemed so unlikely.

And yet here he was, running with Greyback's pack. Serving with him, it seemed.

Even if the detail about Draco's apprenticeship to Snape was just something that had been passed along, it still implied that Lupin was in the loop.

It made sense, though. What good had the Light been able to do for him? He lived like a vagrant. Snape had cost him his job but really, not one of his high-and-mighty friends had taken him in? And the Goddamn Ministry certainly wasn't making it any easier.

It made a sort of simple, logical sense. The Dark Lord had more to offer Lupin than Dumbledore.

And yet Draco wasn't exactly sure how he felt about this revelation. It was bad enough to wonder about Snape, but if Lupin, too, was Loyal, than there was no hope.

Draco had lost track of the conversation, but he managed to hear the growled, "fine, take the brat!" before Greyback turned back to him and bent down, speaking in a dangerously low voice,

"I know the Dark Lord's got you planning a raid of that fucking school, and I want in. Make it happen, Malfoy."

He stood to his full height again and kicked him in the gut for good measure, and then stalked out of the tent, leaving Draco alone with Lupin. Draco was entirely too bewildered by what Greyback had just suggested that be barely registered the change in Lupin's expression.

"What were you thinking?" he asked, his hand now pinching the top of his nose and rubbing his eyes wearily.

"It was an accident," Draco answered honestly.

Lupin looked at him for a moment, and then dropped down onto his knees and lifted Draco roughly by the shoulders to that he was kneeling, too. He looked into Draco's eyes for a long time, searching for something, and Draco found he couldn't look away.

At length he sat back onto his heels and asked very quietly, "does anyone know you left the school?"

Draco shook his head.

"Does Severus know?" Lupin asked quietly, and Draco noted not only the change in name but also the softer tone in which he pronounced that name, and the piercing gaze with which he held him.

He shook his head again.

Lupin nodded solemnly at him once, then cast a silent _patronus_. He released Draco bonds and held out his wand, but before Draco could take it, Lupin held his gaze and said, "follow me and do as I say, is that understood?"

He sounded alarmingly like Snape in that moment. Concerned, but severe. How long had he been living this double life? Draco wondered. He nodded, and took his wand. Lupin grasped him firmly by the elbow, sharp nails digging into the skin, and pulled him up to stand. Despite the firm grip, though, he led him with an air serene calm out of the tent, past the bonfire and the celebrants, whoever they were, and into a wooded area, where he disapparated them.

* * *

Severus was out of scotch. The wolf had apparently decided to bail, because he's a bloody wolf, and Severus really needed a scotch and a wank and to fall into bed pretending he did not care one iota that the fucking wolf had decided to bail. Without even owling.

Bastard.

As it turned out, the lack of alcohol was a good thing, in retrospect, or he might not have been lucid enough when the silvery-white otter streaked into the room. Severus scowled at the beast, ready to dismiss whatever lame excuse it offered.

"Your charge showed up at the camp. Meet me at home."

Severus swallowed. _Surely not._

And, bloody hell, _how?_

He snapped for a house-elf and sent it in search of the boy. By the time it came back three minutes later, he was already in his robes. "Master Draco Malfoy is not in the school, sir," it answered.

Severus was going to throttle that stupid boy if he managed to recover him alive.

_Fuck._

_

* * *

_

**Responses to your comments:**

Miss Kandy Whitlock: You are too kind. I'm glad you find them believable, at least Draco. He's certainly a storm of emotions, isn't he? I'm so flattered by your praise, I just hope I can continue to live up to it.

TrinityLost: Thank you, as always. Some answers: I'm thinking 5-10 more chapters after this one. I can't promise you a happy ending, but they will reconcile, and _talk_, before the end, and Draco will make some tough choices, but not what you might expect. As for the amount of violence Potter is capable of… I think he probably had no idea how badly he'd injured Draco, because he doesn't know his own strength and loses control of his anger regularly, which is in keeping with canon-Harry, more or less. And yes, a sequel is in the works, though it probably won't be as long, probably with a happy ending. I've got to reread DH first, but some of the conflicts (i.e. between Vincent and Draco, which will come to a head in the RoR during the final battle) have been laid down in this one for that very purpose.

kittie386: Thank you, I'm so glad you like it!


	46. Sectumsempra

So, it's been a long time coming, but we're finally at the_ sectumsempra_ scene! I hope you like my interpretation.

_[As previously, __**bold**__ lines are taken or paraphrased from the text by JKR and are not mine.]_

**Chapter 46: Sectumsempra**

Draco crouched at the bottom of the steps and strained his ears to listen through the hidden door.

"That boy is going to get himself, or someone else, killed, Severus," Lupin was saying in a deathly serious voice.

"Not if I murder him first!" Snape called out, and suddenly Draco was hit with a painful stinging hex to the shoulder and he fell back from the door and hit the stairs. "I know you are listening, you ungrateful wretch, get back upstairs!" Snape snarled, and Draco reluctantly climbed back to the top of the stairs.

A clink of glasses and faint murmuring reached him, and when he thought they were distracted enough, he scooted step by step back down and sat behind the hidden door again, straining his ears to hear.

"Greyback was furious," Lupin sighed.

"Hardly surprising," Snape sneered disdainfully.

Draco peaked through a space between some books. They were sitting in a pair of armchairs in front of the fire. The fire-place was along the same wall as the bookshelves, one of which hid the secret door, and Draco could see their faces in the firelight, each frowning into a tumbler of some honey-coloured liquor.

"I had to drop your name," Lupin said. "He thinks the Dark Lord has Draco orchestrating a raid of the school," He paused. "Please," he said, his tone darkened, "please tell me that is not what Draco is assigned to do."

"I can't divulge the Dark Lord's orders… or Albus'…" Snape answered slowly.

Lupin then he leaned just fractionally closer to Snape, and added, "There's a lot of bitterness in the ranks, Severus. They're going to take it out on him if you're not there to protect him."

"I know that," Snape answered impatiently. Then he placed his empty glass on a side table and stood, and Lupin stood, too, and grasped his arm. Something in the air seemed to have changed, and Draco held his breath.

"Stay?" Lupin asked so quietly Draco wasn't sure he'd heard it at all.

Snape shook his head. Lupin took a step closer, and then Snape whispered, "Remus…" and it sounded like a warning, but maybe also a plea…

They stared at each other in the firelight and Draco felt something clenching in his chest and warmth flooding his cheeks watching them, standing there.

Eventually Lupin's shoulders dropped as though he'd exhaled a breath he'd been holding, and Snape pulled away. He flicked his wand, and the door behind which Draco had been hiding clicked and swung open, and he stepped out.

Snape scowled at him, and Lupin looked disappointed at him, and Draco wanted to yell at both of them because, honestly, it was a mistake and how the hell was he supposed to know that that mangy beast would just happen to be there at that moment? But there was something else in the air between them, and Draco simply stood silently.

Snape was throwing on his cloak and heading toward the door, and Draco followed him, head bowed. But he turned back to look at Lupin, standing by the fire, watching them. He nodded, and Lupin nodded back, a faint smile on his lips, but it was a pained one and it didn't reach his eyes.

* * *

Snape fed him veritaserum shortly after their arrival back to the Hogwarts dungeons. Draco figured he probably shouldn't be surprised, but he was still furious.

"And the cabinets… work?" Snape sounded surprised.

"Yes," the serum forced out of his mouth against his will. "I got in on one side and out on the other." They were sitting in front of the fireplace in Snape's office.

"No one else knows?"

Draco shook his head. The serum forced out a verbal, "no."

Snape stared at him, his eyes dark and cold, a mask of indifference in all ways except a slight slope of the eyes, Draco thought. And the way he was clenching his hands in his robes. He was obviously furious. Someone who wasn't familiar with the signs might have missed it, but Draco could see it clear as day: Snape was absolutely furious with him. And maybe a little… hurt? that Draco had hidden this from him for so long.

The guilt coiling in Draco's stomach was eventually too much for him, and he turned away from the piercing black gaze.

"Greyback is going to propose the raid, whether you do or not. Luckily for you, the Dark Lord will probably give you credit either way. If he summons you, you must propose to lead the raid, is that understood? And Greyback must be barred entry, if possible." He said those words very slowly and clearly.

Draco nodded. The blood had completely drained from his face now, and his hands felt numb.

"Why…?" Snape finally asked, and Draco turned and answered honestly, because he had no choice.

"I thought I could get Mother and we could leave England. I wanted to get out. I didn't want to do my duty," he muttered dejectedly, and then before he could stop himself, the serum forced out, "and I still don't."

Snape's posture softened beside him fractionally, and then he stood abruptly. "Go to bed," he said, and Draco stood to leave. He turned at the door, though, when he saw Snape putting on his cloak again.

"Where are you going?" he asked before he could stop himself.

Snape shot him a venomous glower, but replied. "To visit a certain shopkeeper."

* * *

The first letter arrived the next day. It was scrawled in large, pointy letters on a wrinkled piece of parchment and delivered by what appeared to be a nearly wild owl.

_Make it happen, or you will pay._

There was no signature, but none was required.

The messages kept coming, all equally terse, every few days.

_Make it happen, you little shit, if you want to see your precious mother alive._

Potter still dogged his steps and Snape seemed to be watching him all the time, too. He avoided them both like the plague, hiding in the library, until Potter took to 'studying' with the Girl-Weasel at a table near his, catching his eyes every few minutes. There was something deeply disturbing about the gleam in Potter's eyes when he looked over her shoulder at him, his tongue down her throat.

Draco hid in the common room until Snape cornered him there. After the confession that the veritaserum had provoked Draco was absolutely convinced that Snape was never going to trust him again. He only hoped he wouldn't report his disloyalty to the Dark Lord.

In the end, Moaning fucking Myrtle turned out to be the best company he could find.

"**Hush, now,"** she crooned at him as he stared at his reflection in the cracked mirror of the sixth floor bathroom.

He looked… pale. Even paler than usual, he thought. And thin. There were dark circles around his eyes, and his cheeks were more hollow than ever. His dress shirt hung on bony shoulders; he'd all but stopped attending Quidditch practice and he seemed to be wasting away.

He glared at himself. He glared at Myrtle. She simpered and tried ineffectively to stroke his hair.

"**Tell me what's wrong," **she whispered. **"I promise, I won't tell a soul…"**

"Fuck off, Myrtle," he muttered, but with little conviction.

"**I promise,"** she crooned again, and sidled up to him, misty white tendrils brushing his neck_. Gross_**. "Let me help you,"** she whispered in his ear, and it sounded vaguely suggestive. He shuddered.

"**You can't help, me. No one can,"** he said dejectedly.

And it was true. Even Snape… even Snape couldn't help him. He could do the job for him, though. Either way, it was a lost cause. Dumbledore would die. The Dark Lord would win the War, and Draco's family inheritance was going to fund the whole thing.

And Greyback, or someone, somehow, was going to go to the Dark Lord with this absurd idea to invade the school and there was nothing Draco could do to stop it. He'd probably be assigned to lead it. He'd be praised for finding a way past the wards. He'd be honoured, if it succeeded.

And Potter... Potter would die.

Draco felt nauseas and dizzy with the horror of it all… and gripped the side of the sink. He retched, but nothing came up.

Everything was going wrong. And there was no way out. He felt like he was spiralling down into an inevitable black hole and there was nothing he could do but turn to face the darkness and keep on plummeting downward.

He retched again, and felt the tears welling up in his eyes as he choked and heaved, but nothing would come up. He choked, and swallowed, and hung his head.

"**He's going to kill me,"** he whispered. **"I can't do it, and if I don't, he's going to kill me, I know it… but I just… I can't."**

Something creaked behind him and he froze, a cold trickle running down his spine.

He looked up to see… Potter. _Fuck._

He wheeled around, his wand drawn, but his trip jinx missed, and exploded a stall door instead. Potter sent another flying at him, but Draco deflected it, and it hit a faucet, cracking it, and steaming hot water burst out and started to flood the tile floor.

"**No, No! Stop it! Stop!"** Myrtle was crying now, hovering above them. Draco sent a stunner at Potter, but he dodged an it hit the wall, shattering the tile and sending shards and dust flying in the air that was slowly filling with steam.

Potter threw a leg-lock at him, but he deflected it, and stepped forward, but Potter hit him with a sticking hex and he was flung against the wall and stuck there, wand on the floor.

Myrtle was floating above them whimpering now, as Potter stalked toward him.

"Fuck off, Potter," Draco said, but he didn't sound as confident as he wished.

"You're pathetic," Potter spat. Draco hissed and averted his eyes, trying to look haughty and unperturbed. "What is Voldemort making you do now, Malfoy? Kidnap? Murder? I doubt you have the stomach for it."

Draco gritted his teeth and glared daggers at the opposite wall.

"Tell me what he's planning," Potter demanded.

Draco chuckled bitterly. "Why? There's nothing you can do about it!" he yelled, and then he finished more quietly, "there's nothing anyone can do about it…"

He looked up at Potter's face and was surprised to see it softening a little. And then, to Draco's immense surprise, he said, "I can help you."

"You can't," Draco spat out bitterly. "You don't understand…"

Potter stepped back, his feet splashing in the spilled water, and looked at him incredulously. "You think I don't know what Voldemort is capable of? You think I don't know what it's like to walk around with a price on my fucking head?"

Draco winced at the name but stopped fighting the hex that was holding him to the wall. He let his head fall, and Potter's rage seemed to deflate, too. And then, surprisingly, he released the hex and handed Draco his wand, and placed a hand on his shoulder. The floor was completely flooded now, and filled the room with steam that fogged the mirrors and windows.

Draco looked up to see green eyes looking thoughtfully at him, searching his face, and felt the hand on his shoulder lingering… and then it slid slowly down his arm, until calloused fingers found Draco's and grasped them lightly.

And then Potter kissed him.

Draco was too shocked to react at first, and the familiarity was strange… but... it felt _wrong_ to be here like this, after everything Potter had done to him. After the way he'd tormented him, how dare he? How dare he come back now and kiss him? There was no way Draco was going to tolerate being treated this way. He summoned the will and shoved the boy off of him roughly.

He knew his face looked scared and hurt, because he saw it mirrored in Potter's expression. But Potter's eyes quickly darkened, and he raised his wand, and in that instant, Draco remembered every horrible indignation, every bitter humiliation, every moment of anxiety and dread and shame that Potter had inflicted upon him. He pointed his wand and the "cruci-" burst out of his lips before he'd even thought about it… but he never finished the curse.

Afterwards, he would say that it didn't hurt. Not at first. The slashes were so fast he barely felt them crisscrossing his face and torso until he choked and found he couldn't breathe.

Blood was bubbling up in his throat, he could already taste it, and for a few horrible seconds he just stood there, dazed. He looked down at his chest and saw the quickly spreading red stains across his white shirt, and felt his stomach drop. He looked up at Potter and saw abject terror in his eyes.

And then he fell to the floor, hot water splashing around him, and stared up at the ceiling.

Potter came crashing down to his knees beside him, whispering over and over, **"no, no, no, no I didn't mean… I didn't know… Draco! _Draco!... No!_"** Draco's eyes were out of focus now, but he could still feel Potter's hands shaking his shoulder and holding his hand, and bending over him, **"no, no _Draco,_ no _please_ no…" **his voiced was shaky, like he was sobbing.

Someone else was screaming, but it took Draco a while to recognize that it was Myrtle. Myrtle screaming, **"**_**Murder! Murder! Murder in the bathroom!"**_


	47. Revelation

Ok, people, I'm sorry about the wait. My semester just started so I've been dealing with real life. But here's a longer chapter for you. I have one more to put up in the morning, and then I'm going to try for updates every two or three days until this is done, and it's getting pretty close to the end!

Responses to all of your comments are at the bottom! :)

_[As previously, __**bold**__ lines are taken or paraphrased from the text by JKR and are not mine.]_

**Chapter 47: Revelation**

**_"Murder in the bathroom!"_**

Severus heard Myrtle's shrieks from around the corner and dismissed it as the typically over-the-top rantings of a long-dead attention-seeking child. He turned the corner anyway, thinking that if he was lucky, he'd get the chance to give hand out a few detentions to cheer himself up.

He turned the corner, and immediately knew something was wrong. Even from the end of the hall he could see the water pouring out from under the bathroom door, and even from there, he could see that it was tinted red.

He broke into a swift stride, his long legs carrying him at a pace that would require most people to actually run. He pulled the bathroom door open quickly and was immediately blinded by a wave of hot steam rushing out into the cold hallway. He sloshed through the hot water on the floor, peering through the fog in the room, following the trail of swirling red at his feet until he was close enough to see a boy in school robes crouched over the body of another, sobbing and whispering,

**"Oh gods, please, _please no,_ no, no, no _Draco, no!_**_"_

Something dropped inside Severus' stomach and despite the heat in the room he felt suddenly ice-cold. He bent down and pushed the sobbing boy out of the way and saw his worst fears confirmed.

There lay Draco, shaking violently, eyes glazed over, blood pouring from long slashes across his face and torso, as though he'd been severed with a sword. He recognized the curse immediately, even without seeing more than a few cuts on his face. The pattern, the depth, the speed of blood-loss, the obvious and abundant magical residue: it was unmistakable. He looked over at the boy huddling by Draco's side, grasping his arm, sitting up now and cradling Draco's head in his lap, weeping, "Draco, Draco please, please please no, I can't… I never… please…"

Severus was not surprised, of course, to recognize him. _Potter._

Even as he was considering cursing the monster to the same fate, be began to sing the counter-curse, a soft, melodic incantation rather like a lullaby… he'd not sung this in years, not since the first war. It was a curse he rarely used, even then, a few others knew it.

As he sang, slowly, slowly the blood around them trickled back into Draco's body, and the wounds began to knit themselves back together. Severus kneeled in close and whispered, "It's ok, it will be ok," as Draco stopped shaking and then slowly regained consciousness, though only enough to blinked and groan with the pain.

**"You will ok. Come,"** he said softly, **"you must go to the Hospital Wing… if he hurry we may even avoid any scaring,"** and he lifted the boy into his arms, careless of his soaking wet robes, and clutched him to his chest.

Potter called to him as he slowly stood up with Draco in his arms. "Will he live? Will he be ok? I didn't mean to… I didn't know…"

Potter was still kneeling on the ground, shivering with shock, a look of abject horror on his face, but Severus had little pity to spare for him.

"You!" he turned around to face him, barely containing the fury seething inside him.** "Stay here and wait for me,"** he barked, and swept out of the bathroom and down the hall.

A trail of water followed them as he carried the boy down the hall and down the stairs to the Hospital Wing. He sent the doors flying open with a bang.

"What in the world?" came Poppy's outraged voice from her office as she scurried out to meet them. As soon as her gaze fell upon Draco, though, she became serious, and helped Severus to move him into a bed. She pulled a set of curtains around it, banished his clothes, and began examining the fresh wounds, applying dittany, and summoning a variety of healing and pain potions from a cabinet across the room.

Severus ducked several flying jars and bottles as they zoomed toward the bed. He wanted to stay, to see that the boy was ok... but Potter still needed dealing with.

He nodded to Poppy, who nodded back seriously but asked no questions, and Severus swept back up to the sixth floor bathroom.

* * *

When he returned to the Hospital Wing after dinner, Poppy was waiting for him.

"How did this happen?" she asked him immediately, arms crossed.

"I cannot divulge that information without Albus' permission."

"Don't think I didn't recognize that curse, Severus. I might be one of the only ones who would have."

"I know, or I wouldn't have brought him," Severus answered smoothly, and she seemed at least somewhat pacified.

"You should be more careful what you teach those Slytherins of yours," she said in her typically quiet but still judgmental tone.

"This was not a Slytherin. It was your darling Potter," he replied coolly, and relished the look of outrage on her face at the revelation. She seemed at a loss for words, and swept away into her office.

Severus stood looking down at the sleeping figure on the bed in front of him. He looked inordinately frail, his paper-white face was still, his eyes closed. The covers were pulled up under his arms but Severus could see thick gauzy bandages wrapped around his bare torso, and over one shoulder. His lips were pursed with what looked like pain, but he appeared to be sleeping. He looked much smaller and younger than he really was, more like the little boy he used to be and not the young man he was just growing up to be.

A sweep and click behind him told him someone must have come in, or at least peaked in, but when he turned to look he saw no one. He turned back to the boy and stood there staring silently, listening to the poorly-silenced, shuffling footsteps moving closer and closer to the bed, and finally stopping on the other side, to stand at the foot of the neighbouring bed.

Potter was here.

It occurred to Severus to summon the damn cloak and hex the bloody idiot but before he could think of something suitably painful and embarrassing, a second sweep of the door told him that Albus had arrived.

The old man strode slowly toward the bed, but Severus did not turn around. He needn't pretend to Albus, or to Potter, for that matter. Presently a blackened hand came down onto his shoulder. Severus couldn't see it, but he felt how cold it was through his robes. The curse had spread, despite his best efforts, and was already spreading to the shoulder through the bone, though the blackened crust on the surface had only spread to halfway up the forearm so far.

He didn't have much longer. It would spread to his heart soon enough, and that would be the end. But it was too soon. There was not enough time. There was never enough time.

The awful ache of that impending loss, so much worse than any loss he could even imagine, only served to make the shock of this sudden near-loss of Draco more acute.

Severus turned to Albus. "Potter must be expelled," he said, his voice deathly serious.

"Severus, I think that's a bit severe," Albus answered, his eyes flitting momentarily in the direction where Severus had judged Potter to be standing, dismissing any doubts Severus might have had that the boy was here with them.

"No, it's not," he answered, incensed by the Potter's very presence. "If anyone else, _anyone_ else had found them, Draco would not be alive."

"I am aware of that good fortune," Albus answered in his usual even, dismissive tone, "young Mr. Malfoy owes you his life. As does Harry."

"Potter used a potentially lethal curse on a fellow student. He _must_ be expelled."

"Severus," Albus said, in a tone that was both tired but firm. "Harry told me he had no idea what the curse did, and I believe he regrets his actions tremendously."

Severus had no doubt about where Potter had learned that curse, though the boy had of course lied and hidden the book. "Moreover," Albus continued, "I understand that you've given him detention every Saturday for the rest of term."

"It's not enough. He must be expelled. Keep him in the castle, for all I care, or send him to the Order, but he cannot stay on as a student here. He has proven himself over and over again to be a threat to the students at this school and –"

"Young Mr. Malfoy has already put two students in the hospital this year," Albus interrupted, "both of whom very nearly died."

"Those were accidents._ I'm_ to blame for failing to discover his plans and redirect him to something more productive."

"Yes, his attempts to fulfill his mission have been rather feeble, I agree," Albus answered, sounding almost amused.

* * *

Draco woke to a haze of pain potions and healing spells, lying on a bed, surrounded by the smell of disinfectant and the slight burning smell of really power cleaning charms.

He opened his eyes to confirm that he was lying in the Hospital Wing. It was dark, and nearly silent, and all he could see was the pattern of tiles on the ceiling. He'd spent entirely too much time in here in the last six years.

He opened his eyes, the light blinding him and shooting into the headache that was forming behind his temples, but in that brief moment he caught a glimpse of Snape standing by the bed, staring at the door.

Boots clicking on the floor, approaching. Draco held still, pretending to sleep.

Out of the corner of an eyes, through closed lashes, he could see that it was… Professor Dumbledore?

"Potter must be expelled," Snape insisted, and Draco silently agreed.

He listened mutely as they argued, growing more and more confused and panicked. Dumbledore knew he was to blame for the Bell girl, and the Weasel? He knew about the mission?

If he had any doubts, they were eliminated when Dumbledore said, almost in a chuckle, "Yes, his attempts to fulfill his mission have been rather feeble."

Draco would have been insulted if he wasn't so completely terrified by the revelation that he'd been discovered. Had Snape sold him out? Was he really a traitor to the Dark Lord after all? And what did that make Draco?

"You don't think he'll be able to do it." Snape said slowly, his tone unreadable.

"I'm not sure that he will be able to, no," Dumbledore answered, sounding almost sad about it. "And I believe you know what that means, Severus."

Draco knew what that meant, and Snape knew what that meant, but how in the hell did Dumbledore know what that meant? Did Dumbledore know about the Oath? Draco strained his ears, but Snape was silent for a long time, and when he next spoke, his voice was quiet and uncharacteristically hoarse. "Albus, I…_ how can I…?_"

"It is a compassionate act," Dumbledore replied simply. "A mercy killing, to forestall a more painful and humiliating end…"

Snape interrupted, "I know that."

Dumbledore continued firmly, "And you have no choice, because of the Oath you swore. You must."

Draco held his breath at the confirmation that Dumbledore knew. He knew about his mission, and he knew about the Oath. How? And why?

"Even if I do… the Dark Lord will punish his failure," Snape answered, sounding almost defensive.

"Would you have him tear apart his soul by taking the life of another?"

"It would be a compassionate act, as you say," Snape replied, but Dumbledore made a sound in the back of his throat as though he was unimpressed by this argument.

"You are sworn to obey me, Severus," Dumbledore answered, his tone harsher than before, "and these are my orders. I do not wish for Mr. Malfoy to split his soul if it can be avoided."

**"And what about _my _soul, Albus?"** Snape shot back, a note of pleading in his voice that Draco almost didn't recognize. "And what about Potter's?"

Dumbledore paused, and even Draco, with his eyes closed, could feel the tension in the room, like a palpable presence.

"That cannot be helped," Dumbledore answered slowly and quietly, "Harry is the only one who can do it."

"And does he know exactly what is being asked of him? Does he know that he must commit murder? And that in doing so he will probably d—"

"_Enough!_" Dumbledore interrupted him with a roar and cut off whatever Snape was about to say. Snape growled and heaved a heavy sighed, apparently relenting, and then Dumbledore spoke again, more calmly. "Harry understands as much as he needs to. Let us hope that he can do what is required of him. And the same for you, and Mr. Malfoy."

"If he survives the night," Snape added, his tone inscrutable again.

Both men were silent for a long time, and the tension, though less, did not completely dissipate.

And then, without another word, they both turned to leave. Draco listened in stunned silence as their footsteps disappeared down the hall.

He was about to exhale when he heard another sigh of relief from the other side of the bed. Draco tensed up at the sound, and the soft rustling of fabric that followed. With a scrape and a creak, the invisible presence apparently pulled up a chair and sat down beside the bed. Draco kept his face a mask of sleep.

Of course, now that he realized he was alone with Potter (because who the hell else would it be?), he also realized that he had no idea where his wand was, he felt his breath quicken. What did Potter want now? To finish the job?

He almost cried out in surprise when an invisible hand reached out and grasped his. And then the whispering started.

"I'm so sorry, Malfoy, I'm so sorry, I didn't know what that curse would do, I didn't know, I had no idea, I never wanted to do this to you, I never wanted to hurt you, oh gods Malfoy I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't know… Gods Malfoy… _Draco_…" he whispered, his voice almost breaking on the name, "I can't lose you now… I can't…. I promise, I'll stay away from you forever if you want me to, I'll do anything…. just be ok, please be ok, please…" his murmured pleas dissolved into silent sobs, and Draco felt him lay a tear-streaked face down onto their joined hands.

Draco lay frozen, listening to Potter's whispered confessions. This was too much, there was too much happening. First the fight, then the revelation that Dumbledore knew about the Dark Lord's mission and was ordering Snape to fulfill it for him. Had Potter been here, invisible, the whole time, listening? How much had he understood? And now Potter was holding his hand and… crying?

It was too much to process. His head was sore and fuzzy, but as Potter's breathing gradually evened out, Draco felt himself slipping slowly into sleep.

* * *

Responses to your comments:

_Miss Kandy Whitlock:_ Thank you! I'm glad to have had you hoping, though, that's sort of the point... that everything still happens, but we get to understand how and why it happens on a deeper level.

_Passing Bells:_ Ooh I'm glad you liked it, it's always a challenge to work within the boundaries of actual events in the canon, but it's fun to read when it works.

_The Dabbler:_ Muahaha! (that was my evil laugh). Yes, I know, it was mean, but it wouldn't be sixth year without that scene, and it's much more fun to use it than to leave it out. Also - I hope you liked Severus' experience of the event, as portrayed in this chapter.

_Mya Blackfang:_ Thank you! I'm so glad you like it.


	48. Sacrifice

Please let me know what you think about my interpretation of Draco's motivation and psychology at the end of this chapter. I've been building to it since the beginning, with the forced torture, his growing conscience, and the developing bond between Draco and Severus.

_retrocirce:_ thank you!

**Chapter 48: Sacrifice**

It was still dark, probably not long after midnight, when Draco woke again. The pain in his chest and shoulder was aching again, as the wounds slowly healed. Apparently several of his vital organs were repairing themselves. The pain was still only a nagging sort of ache, though. Just enough to keep him from falling back to sleep.

Potter must have woken, too, because Draco could hear him shifting and the rustle of fabric that told him he was rising.

Just as Potter's fingers withdrew from his hand, Draco blurted out, "you're leaving?" before he could stop himself. He felt the invisible presence freeze beside the bed.

"Er… do you want me to stay?" came Potter's disembodied voice, sounding extremely nervous, but pathetically hopeful.

Draco frowned, but didn't say anything, because he couldn't possibly admit that, yes, he wanted Potter to stay, damnit, though he had no earthly idea why.

Apparently Potter heard his unspoken affirmation, though, because he sat back down and took his hand and leaned his head on the side of the bed again. The sides of Draco's lips curved upward slightly and he gave into the impulse to roll over to face the side of the bed where Potter sat. Somehow he felt much less self-conscious with Invisi-Potter.

After a few quiet minutes, Potter whispered, "How did you know?"

"I heard you," Draco answered.

"Did you hear Snape and Dumbledore, too?"

Draco paused for a moment before answering a careful, "yes." He opened his eyes and looked in the general direction in which he assumed Potter to be.

"What do you think?"

"I don't know," he answered tiredly.

"Me neither," Potter answered, removing the invisibility cloak. They looked at each other awkwardly for a moment, before Potter asked him, "what are you going to do?"

Draco turned onto his back and stared at the ceiling, frowning. "I guess have to do it," he said.

"You mean – ?"

"Yes, I have to kill… someone," he said carefully, because even if Potter had heard the entire conversation, he probably still had no idea who the intended victim was.

"Who—?" Potter started to ask, but Draco withdrew his hand quickly and threw him a dangerous look, and he seemed to swallow his question. Instead he added, "Snape could do it."

"If Snape does it, I'm dead anyway. The Dark Lord will kill me, and my mother. I have no choice." He sounded bitter and scared, he knew, and he hated that. He quickly changed the subject. "What are you going to do?"

"I guess I don't have a choice, either," Potter sighed. "I have to kill Voldemort." Draco winced at the name but Potter apparently chose to ignore it. They sat in silence for a very long time. Finally Potter spoke again, "what… what do you think it's like?"

"What what is like?"

"You know… casting the avad-… killing someone?"

"I don't know," Draco answered quietly. He hadn't given it much thought.

Potter sighed and nodded, "Me neither. I sort of wished I'd never have to find out."

"Really?" Draco asked, because he couldn't resist, "because you've almost killed me twice now."

"I had no idea what that curse would do!"

"So you decided to just try it out!"

"You were about to _crucio_ me!"

"Oh big fucking deal!" Draco sat up and crossed his arm, glaring at Potter, "I've lost count of the number of times I've been crucioed this year!"

Potter didn't answer, though. He just sat there gaping, his eyes wide and incredulous. Draco felt himself suddenly and unaccountably self-conscious.

"Gods, that's…. that's terrible…" Potter whispered. Draco huffed, but leaned back onto his pillows again.

They were silent for a few moments, until Potter, frowning, spoke again, "but wait, when was the other time?"

"In the dungeons," Draco mumbled.

"But…"

Draco sighed and ground out, "you broke my rib and it punctured a lung-"

Potter gasped. He looked horrified, "I had no idea… _gods_… I was just… I was so _angry_…" he stammered, his face in his hands.

"It was fine. Snape found me," Draco answered, trying to sound dismissive.

"Snape…" Potter whispered. Draco peeked over at him and saw something like amazement in his expression.

"Yeah…" Draco answered quietly.

Just then, they both heard the tell-tale clacking of Madame Pomfrey's shoes on the linoleum. Potter quickly threw his cloak back on and stepped away from the bed. Pomfrey arrived laden with pain potions to administer. She vanished his bandages from inside his pajamas, too, after a quick scan with her wand.

"They'll be tender for a while, dear," she told him, then briskly covered him in his blanket and strode out with an admonitory, "go back to sleep."

When she had finally left, Draco called out, "Potter?" in a quiet, embarrassingly hopeful voice.

In response, he felt, but didn't see, the warm pressure of a hand on his chest. Draco watched, spellbound, as his hospital blanket slowly moved down to his waist, as though pulling itself down of its own accord. Draco suddenly felt cold, and vulnerable, and almost moved his knees up, but then a gentle hand (invisible, but gentle) began to unbutton his pajama shirt, and he heard a strangled gasp as the cloth pulled away to reveal the long reddened slashes that criss-crossed his torso, one extending up over his right shoulder. He felt hands brushing along the new scars, and they seemed to be shaking, though he couldn't be sure. Then they stilled, and he heard a small, sobbing sound coming from where Potter's face must be.

"I'm so sorry, Malf—_Draco_… I'm so sorry…" he said, his voice barely a whisper.

"Forget it, Potter," Draco answered, but he knew his voice didn't sound as dismissive as it might have.

Potter didn't answer. Instead he simply buttoned up Draco's shirt again, and lifted the cover up to his shoulders as Draco turned away and curled up to go to sleep. Then, to his enormous surprise, he felt the weight of Potter's body sitting on the edge of the bed, and heard the rustle and plunk of one shoe, then the other. Invisible hands lifted the covers, and Potter, still wearing his cloak, and lay down and curled around Draco, his nose nestled against Draco's shoulder blade, knees tucked behind Draco's knees, and one arm laid tentatively on his hip. Without thinking, Draco reached up and grabbed Potter's arm and pulled it around him, interlacing their fingers, and Potter relaxed and snuggled closer.

"Mmmm," he felt Potter smile into his shoulder.

"Potter?" Draco asked quietly.

"Hmm?" Potter murmured into his shoulderblade.

"You cannot keep freaking out. Next time you call me a faggot I really _will _crucio you, got it?"

Potter laughed into his shoulder but nodded earnestly. "Promise." Draco relaxed against him. "Goodnight, Draco…" Potter murmured sleepily.

"Goodnight… Harry," Draco whispered, and the hand in his tightened just a fraction. Gradually Potter's breathing evened out, and soon he was snoring lightly, fast asleep.

Draco lay there, in the quiet, for a long time. Now that he was awake, and Potter was sleeping… his mind was whirring in circles, and he couldn't stop replaying the conversation he'd overheard.

Dumbledore knew that Draco had been ordered to kill him. And Dumbledore knew that Snape was obliged, indeed _sworn_, to do it for him in the now increasingly likely event that he would fail. And Dumbledore had ordered him to carry it out.

But why? What worse fate was Dumbledore expecting? Has he given up on the War? Has the Light already lost? That thought was too unbearable for Draco to ingest, and he chose to set it aside in favour of the other answer Dumbledore had offered: that he did not want to damage Draco's soul.

The prospect sounded laughable… almost. How could his soul possibly be salvageable after everything he had already done? After everything the Dark Lord had already required of him? The Dark Lord had already seen to it that Draco's soul was damaged beyond repair, that he would never again have a clear conscience, that he would never again live without nightmares, without guilt. The Dark Lord had already compelled him to damage himself beyond repair. And yet… he had not committed murder. He had never taken a life. And so, in theory, tarnished though it might be, his soul was still in one piece.

But what about Snape's soul? How could Professor Dumbledore, whom Snape had known and served (whether honestly or not, and Draco was now unsure about that, too)… how could he require, no, _order,_ Snape to murder him? How could he ask that, knowing what it would cost him?

And what would it mean, if Snape did follow those orders?

Would it mean mercy? Obligation? Compassion? Or something more like… _obedience_. Obedience to _two_ Lords - one Dark, one Light - both requiring him to carry out what in Snape's own words is "the ultimate act of submission:" to take the life of someone he loves.

The thought made Draco physically ill.

To envision Snape, his professor, mentor and protector, bound in servitude to not one, but two such Lords. To think of such a proud and powerful wizard giving in again, one more time, to demands beyond what anyone should have to submit to…. It was unbearable.

Lying in the darkness, wrapped in Potter's warm embrace, with nothing but the sound of his quiet breathing, knowing that he was only here because Snape had saved him, again and again, because Snape had always come for him… Draco made his choice once and for all.

He would lead the raid. He would storm the castle. He would kill Dumbledore.

Not for himself. Not for his mother. Not for family, or honor, or glory. Not out of fear, or compulsion. Certainly not for the Dark Lord.

No… he would do it for Snape. For Severus Snape, that he might have one less burden on his conscience. That he might be spared this one ache, this one act of submission.

If it must be done… if someone must bear the horrible burden, if someone must tear apart his soul, then let it be Draco. He owed the man that much, and more.

Draco would do it out of… duty? Honour? A life debt? An innately Slytherin distaste for submission?

Or maybe even_… Love?_

Whatever his reasons, it was _not_ because he had no choice. He _had_ a choice. And he chose to sacrifice the sanctity of his soul, such as it was, to spare Snape this suffering.

_Is this what sacrifice looks like?_ he wondered._ The martyrdom of the soul to spare the soul of another?_


	49. Unforgivable

AN: Forgive me, please, I've been just abominable about updating, but I'm going to try to be better, I promise.

Also, my apologies for playing fast and loose with the properties of Harry's invisibility cloak: I know it doesn't work like this, but this was just too fun.

So, have some smut and such, for being patient.

**Chapter 49: Unforgivable**

Draco woke up the next morning to a rapid sequence of sounds: the clack clack clack of Pomfrey's shoes on the tile floor, a quiet "shit" whispered into the space between his shoulder blades, and then the rustle, creek, and drop of Potter hurriedly climbing out of the hospital bed. An invisible hand brushed a lock of hair out of his eyes before invisible feet, muffled, slipped out of the room just as Madame Pomfrey clacked up to his bed.

Draco tolerated the probing and prodding and managed to suppress his pride long enough to allow Pomfrey to talk him into staying another night. Pansy and Blaise dropped in before lunch and brought him his books, and Greg came by looking lost and stayed to chat before shuffling out again. He must be rather disoriented, Draco thought, without Vincent, who made no appearance at Draco's bedside. Not that Draco had expected it. Nor did he want to see Nott, who would doubtless be trailing around after him.

Draco tried to do his homework, but in the end he spent most of the day napping. Dinner came and went. Pomfrey returned late in the evening to give him a pain potion and dim the lights, he was grateful to set his books aside and try to go back to sleep, though of course, having slept on and off all day, he was hardly tired.

Which is why he was perfectly alert when he heard the click and sweep of the door at the end of the room opening and sliding shut again, and the soft padding of muffled steps toward him.

He raised an eyebrow in the direction of the invisible presence that siddled up to his bed.

"Hey," came the quiet whisper, as an invisible hand ghosted across his cheek.

Draco reached up, searching for an invisible chin to pull down, and suddenly lips were crashing into his, a tongue sliding between his lips, writhing in a kiss the quickly grew frantic.

Invisible hands pulled back his covers and slid down his chest and stomach, and slipped under the waistband of his pajamas, and Draco gasped as Potter's fingers brushed the dripping tip of his straining erection. Potter wrapped his fingers around the shaft, and squeezed, and Draco moaned, his hips bucking upward involuntarily, but Potter didn't move except to run his thumb over the opening, slick with pre-come. Draco was writhing in anticipation as Potter began to pump slowly. Draco wanted to move, wanted to thrust up into Potter's fist: the infuriatingly slow pace was producing an urgent, desperate, tingling tension that seemed to hum at the base of his spine and made him whimper in spite of himself.

Just as the slow, methodical rhythm of Potter's hand was about to drive him to beg, desperately, for more, he felt the a hot, wet mouth wrap around his cock and swallow him, and he really did cry out, in surprise. He couldn't believe what was happening, and despite the incredible hotness of not knowing what Potter was going to do next, he sort of wished he could see what was going on, if only to confirm that it was in fact, happening. But instead he just closed his eyes and let the terrifyingly wonderful sensations wash over him. Meanwhile Potter pulled Draco's trousers down to his ankles and spread his knees, and Draco felt slick, invisible fingers sliding toward his entrance. Potter's tongue licked and flicked at the head of his cock just as one wet finger circled his hole, slowly, tantalizingly. Within seconds, Draco rolled over the edge and arched up off of the bed as he came in large spurts down Potter's throat.

He collapsed with his head on the pillow and heard Potter chuckle softly, but he was too spent to scowl, and instead just lay panting and wishing he was not smiling so much.

Catching the hand that came to land beside his, he rolled over and pulled Potter onto the bed behind him. Some shuffling behind him, a muffled rustling, and two quiet plopping sounds told him Potter had kicked off his shoes and was settling in for the night. Draco took a deep breath, and decided this was a good thing.

The lay in silence or a long time, until finally the thoughts that had been whirring around in his head bubbling up out of him before he could stop himself.

"I'm going to do it."

"Do what?"

"Kill… the person I need to kill."

"Oh…" Potter mused. "Who-?"

"I can't tell you, so don't ask."

"Is it someone I know…?"

"Potter!"

"Harry."

"Harry bloody Potter, I'm not bloody telling you who it is, because if I did, you would try to stop me."

"Why…?"

"Because." Draco answered, and Potter huffed. "Look Dumbledore knows and he's ok with it so… trust Dumbledore, ok?"

"I do," Potter answered defensively. Draco simply nodded. "But why do _you_ have to do it?"

"Because."

"Because why?"

"Because someone has to do it. And if I don't, Snape has to, or the Oath will kill him."

"Then he dies," Potter shrugged, and the ease with which that slipped off of Potter's tongue made Draco shiver.

"Dumbledore wants him alive…"

"Ok, fine, so Snape commits a murder to save his skin, very Slytherin. Why can't you just let him?"

"Because he doesn't want to! Didn't you hear him?"

"Yeah, but—"

"I don't want him to have to do it, ok?" Draco interrupted, turning to face the invisible boy behind him. "The person is someone he cares about… a lot."

Potter snorted. "Snape doesn't care about anymore."

"Oh shut up, Potter, you have no idea what you're talking about," Draco snapped. Potter tensed behind him.

"I'm sorry… look, you must know some other side of him, or something, because it's hard for me to imagine him caring about anyone, that's all."

"Whatever. Look, it's someone he cares about. And I don't really know the person, so I should be the one to do it."

"That's almost… Gryffindor of you, Draco," Potter said with a quiet chuckle.

Draco jabbed his elbow back into Potter's ribs harshly, and Potter yelped. "Take it back!"

The ensuing tussle ended predictably in a kiss, and they settled back into the bed. Hopefully that was the end of _that_ conversation. Draco wanted absolution, somehow, from Potter, even though he knew that there was probably no way Potter would be ok with it if he knew… but still.

They lay in silence until Potter spoke again.

"Does it really tear your soul apart?"

Draco shrugged in what he hoped was a dismissive way. "It probably makes you feel dead inside, or something like that. But I'm sure you feel it, though."

"Why…?"

"Because it's an Unforgiveable."

"Yeah, and murder is wrong." Potter answered, as though that explained anything.

"What? No! I mean, wrong isn't the issue. But there are potions to enslave people, zillions of hexes or barbaric muggle devices to torture people, and many, many ways to kill people. The Unforgivables aren't special just because of what they _do…"_ Draco explained… and realized for the first time that he actually understood what that meant. "Those three curses have consequences not only for the victim, but for the caster," he replied. When Potter simply stared blankly at him, he went on…

"The _imperius_ allows you to control people, but it robs you of your self control, your ability to resist the influence of others. The _crutiatus_ tortures others, but it robs you of your ability to feel joy, or love… and the Killing Curse…" he sighed, "the Killing Curse damages your soul."

"How do you know…?" Potter asked quietly, not meeting Draco's eyes.

"It doesn't matter," Draco answered dismissively.

Potter seemed about to say something more, but instead he just settled into Draco's back. Draco sighed, settling back against the warmth at his back. Potter was blowing hot, sleepy breaths against the back of his neck, and Draco squirmed a little. Potter let out a strangled little noise, which gave Draco pause. He squirmed again, and this time Potter's hips thrust forward and Draco felt the unmistakable, hard line of Potter's erection against the groove of his arse. He was only mildly surprised when his cock gave an interested twitch at the prospect. He moved again, and Potter moved with him, rocked gently, as warm calloused hands found their way under his shirt and fingers tucked into the waistband of his Pomfrey-issue pyjama bottoms. Draco gasped as the cold fingertips trailed over the line of his hipbone, before curving around to palm his arse. He threw his head back as Potter rose up on an elbow behind him and began planting soft little kisses on his neck. He closed his eyes and tried to suppress the jolt of fear as Potter pushed Draco's pajamas down over his hips, and dropped back to fumble with his own until finally he felt the warm, sticky head of Potter's hard cock thrusting against the groove of his arse. He felt his own entrance twitching with neglect and need but the thrill, the inversion, the urgency of Potter's rough grunts into his ear was enough that he couldn't stop himself reaching down to stroke himself as Potter frotted against his arse, hands gripping Draco's hips.

"Oh fuck, Draco… gah…" Potter breathed into his neck as he came in hot, wet spurts that shot up onto Draco's lower back. The feel of Potter's cock pulsing in the groove of his arse was enough to send Draco over the edge, too, and he fisted himself furiously for another few second before he came allover his hand. Potter apparently cast a cleaning charm, though Draco was too exhausted to even be consciously aware of it.

He drifted off with this inane thought that everything would be easier if he could just stay here, like this.

It was not to be.

Something was chasing him through the woods, and he stumbled, and fell, and his left arm landed in a trap – rusty metal jaws clamped down on his forearm and he cried out in the darkness. He was trapped in the dark, and something was after him, and he couldn't move…

Draco woke in a sweat in the cold darkness of the early, early morning feeling sore. Fleeting images he remembered from his dream seemed to linger and his arm actually did feel sore. He shook his head and blinked his eyes in the dark. Potter was snoring softly behind him, one limp arm slung over his waist. But the pain in his arm didn't go away… in fact in intensified. He reached for his wand and cast a quick _lumos_ – and his stomach lurched. The Mark burned black against his pale skin and the snake wriggled.

Suddenly, the door to the infirmary swung open and Draco felt his silencing charm dismantled before he could even turn to see Snape striding swiftly across the infirmary toward his bed. Draco jabbed Potter in the ribs, but he just grunted in protest and burrowed more deeply next to him.

"Draco," Snape growled, and then his eyes turned to the shape under the sheets beside him. Draco elbowed Potter again, and Potter grunted and then sat up groggily, his cloak having slipped off somehow.

"Wha…." He said, then snapped awake at the sight of Snape looming over them.

"Oh um… I'll just…" he mumbled and moved to get up and find his glasses. Snape crossed his arms and rolled his eyes while Draco sat up and tried to find his shoes. Potter looked at him, confused. "Where are you—" he started to ask, but then his eyes fell on Draco's arm. His eyes grew wide and Draco braced himself for the disgust he'd seen on the train before Christmas, but it didn't come. Instead Potter turned worried green eyes at him and whispered, "be careful."

Apparently unwilling to give them even a moment of privacy, Snape raised his voice then. "I'll start taking points Mr. Potter if you don't disappear in the next three seconds," he growled, and Potter scrambled out of bed, casting an apologetic look at Draco before ducking under the cloak and trotting out through the infirmary doors.

Draco turned to meet Snape cold, incredulous gaze. "Come," he said, and led them down to the dungeons where Draco snuck into his room to get dressed before they walked out into the blue-black morning.

* * *

All things considered, it could have been worse. When Draco let slip that he'd been injured attempting to _crucio_ Potter he received some approving nods from the circle. That set him on good enough footing to face the inevitable interrogation about a possible route into Hogwarts.

"Fenrir tells me you have a raid planned, Draco," the Dark Lord asked, sounding amused.

"My Lord, I was reticent to suggest it until I knew the passage into Hogwarts would work."

"And does it?

Draco nodded, "I believe so, my Lord. If it please you, I would like to lead a raid of the school for the purpose of accomplishing my task."

The Dark Lord's eyes glinted in approval, and he nodded for Draco's rehearsed proposal.

Between Draco's rather impressive accomplishment of creating a way into the castle and Snape's snidely supportive interjections, they were able to secure orders for a raid that Draco would lead, and which would exclude the bloody werewolf. Unfortunately, though, there was no depriving Aunt Bella the fun, and no way to speak out against in her front of the Dark Lord, who had apparently taken her back into his good graces, judging by the way she hovered beside the Dark Lord's chair. Draco decided that he was definitely not jealous of her elevated status and the Dark Lord's glinting eyes when he looked at her.

Now, back in class, Draco tried to focus on his school work but all he could really think about was how very, very little time he had left here. He ordered Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder using Pansy's owl. He checked the cabinet, now warded with a million wards that Snape had put up, and surrounded by an incandescent ring that made Draco's Mark tingle when he crossed it: some sort of simplified barrier that would keep prying students away.

Days flew. Weeks flew by. Snape was invested, now, in the raid, and in managing 'collateral damage,' as he put it. "It will complicate things if there is collateral damage," he explained. Draco heard: 'I don't want any of the students to get hurt,' and nodded. Neither did he.

The only problem was – how to get Dumbledore alone, how to kill him, before Snape had a chance to do it. Three days. Draco had three more days.

This and more he was mulling over on evening in the library when a house-elf popped into existence beside him and handed him a note.

_Mr. Malfoy,_

_Report to my office._

_-SS_

Draco groaned and floated his books behind him down to the dungeons. Snape stood by the fire with a glass in his hand.

"Where's the ring?" he asked, his dark eyes surprisingly intense.

"What?"

"The ring! Where is your father's ring, boy?"

Draco frowned to hide his confusion as thrust his hand out for Snape to see. There is was, fitted to his ring finger.

"Take it off."

"Why?" Draco asked, but Snape just sighed and held out his hand, and Draco yanked the ring off and dropped it in his hand. Snape tapped it with his wand, whispered something unintelligible, and then thrust it back, apparently satisfied.

"Keep it with you all the time from now on," he said, and then turned away, and Draco understood himself to be dismissed.

Cryptic as ever, he thought, as he strolled out of the office and into the dungeon.

Suddenly, someone yanked him into a side corridor and he felt a calloused hand pressed against his lips. Dry lips brushed against his ear and he shivered when Potter pressed his hips into him and whispered, "tomorrow night, in the Room."


	50. Trust

Ok people: plot _and_ smut. One more chapter to go! (and then off to DeathHal!) Woot!

Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed, it really helps motivate me through the tough bits. Next chapter, I promise I will respond to all of your comments.

**Chapter 50: Trust**

Time seemed to be moving strangely. Long minutes seemed to stretch out for days as he stared down at his uneaten lunch, and then suddenly the afternoon had passed and it was getting dark outside. Panic rose and fell in uneven waves. _It's all finally happening,_ he told himself. _Just one more day. Tomorrow_. He tried to make himself feel relieved that it was finally over. It didn't help.

Draco breathed through the mask of calm he was wearing and gazed around the common room. He'd chosen to hold court, not knowing when he would be back here to do so again, if ever. The evening light reflected through the lake unevenly, making the green tapestries glow orange, then a gory red. His mind's eye called up black silhouettes in red flashing lights stretching against a dark hillside nearly a year ago. It seemed longer ago than that.

Had someone cast the Mark in the sky that night? Snape had grabbed him by the elbow, and he could not remember, now, if they had cast it or not. He wondered if he would be able to do it tomorrow.

His stomach clenched and he gazed out at the others – whispering intrigues, bickering, debating, competing. Shuffling for dominance in the last crucial weeks before the summer holiday, when alliances would be strengthened or broken.

It was all so pointless.

Watching the reddened waves reflected on the walls, all sound seemed dampened, swallowed. Not one of them could understand, could even begin to understand. He was alone. He would always be alone.

Tomorrow night he would commit a murder. Perhaps an honourable one, but a murder. And then he would leave, and probably never return.

And the only one who might have understood… the only one who did understand… would leave him, too. Because Potter could not forgive this.

Around him, the Slytherin children played, and Draco felt old.

Panic, and sorrow, and the desperate desire to make time stand still now that the light from the lake had faded to black and the lamps were lighting the room drove him to rise prematurely from his throne, waving away the younger students, and go instead to the Room, and wait.

* * *

Potter found him, of course, the way he always did. He stumbled in clutching a folded piece of parchment, cheeks flushed with excitement, blustering something about having his own mission, now. Draco ignored him for the most part, but allowed himself to be dragged to the bed, nimble fingers unbuttoning and unclasping and unzipping between strangely soft kisses.

Lying naked on his side, he stared into green lust-glazed eyes, before a warm wet mouth lapped at his ear, his neck. He closed his eyes, and rolled onto his back, and allowed Potter to take charge. For once, he didn't want to be in control. Not right now. Right now, it was ok for Potter to make all the choices, to do all the work, to be the one in charge. Just this once. Because it was Potter… because it was _Harry_… and that was ok. More than ok. It was… good.

Potter seemed to hear the unspoken invitation, because he paused mid-lick to murmur a familiar spell, and Draco had only a fraction of a second to prepare himself before he felt the burn and tingle of a cleaning charm shooting through him. Potter rose up, rolling Draco over to lie face-down on the bed. Warm, calloused finger stroked across his back as Potter settled himself between Draco legs and started to kiss and lick his way down his spine. Draco lowered his head onto his crossed arms and chewed on the pillowcase to keep from begging, or resisting. When Potter's tongue finally reached the crest of his arse he inhaled quickly and tried to suppress the panic and self-consciousness.

"Relax," Potter whispered, one hand moving to stroke his back gently before joining the other cupping either side of his arse cheeks and kneading them gently. A hot, wet tongue flicked between them, not quite far enough but enough to make Draco shiver with anticipation. The impulse to snap his legs together and roll over battled with the urge to spread his knees and press back into the tongue that was flicking slowly down, down, down and _oh gods_ it was _so good._

He gave in and spread his knees, as Potter ghosted hot breath against his hole and the delightful dirtiness of it was unbelievable. And then he felt the shock of a hot wet tongue right over his entrance. "Oh_fuck_yes," he groaned into the pillow, his hips thrusting forward involuntarily, desperately seeking friction, even as he pressed back into the mouth behind him.

Potter chuckled against his skin and the vibrations travelled through the sensitive ring of muscle, and Draco felt himself twitching in response. The hot wet tongue continued to lick broad strokes alternating with cruel, tantalizing circles around the outer edge, until Draco was so close to begging, and then finally he felt a cool, slick finger pressing into him and he gasped at the intrusion, and the awkward twinge of pain. He struggled with the impulse to expel it from him… but Potter's other hand was rubbing soft circles on his lower back and his tongue was still flicking and licking and he exhaled and relaxed as it slipped further and further in. Every miniscule movement felt amplified and when the intruding finger started to move, probing and twisting and thrusting, he started to have serious second thoughts, but then it brushed against his prostate and immediately his hips thrust forward into the bed, desperate for more.

A second finger, and a third, found their way into him and now Potter was diligently working his prostate and Draco thought he might just come right then, and be fine with that, but then he felt the fingers retreating and he groaned in a strange mix of relief and disappointment at the emptiness they left behind. He heard noisy, rhythmic, wet strokes behind him and turned to see Potter slicking his cock, his huge, swollen cock, green eyes glinting and greedy. The sight was perfectly terrifying, but before he could even process it, he felt hands pulling him up and settling a pillow under him, and the blunt wet head of Potter's cock pressed against his entrance.

He tried to breathe, to let it happen, but it was terrifying to be so bloody vulnerable, and as Potter pressed and finally breached his entrance with just the head of his cock, Draco panicked. The pain was too much, and the vulnerability, all of it, it was too much, and he jerked involuntarily as his breathing grew suddenly short and shallow. He clenched his teeth to keep from crying, but he could already feel the corners of his eyes prickling as he gasped for breath.

Potter, meanwhile, had stopped movement entirely, and was slowly, slowly lowering himself down, his hands moving soothingly up to Draco's shoulders. Draco fought with the conflicting desire to throw Potter's oppressive weight off of him, and to let it cover him, envelop him, hold him still.

"Shhh," Potter whispered into his ear, "it's ok. I'm not going to hurt you…"

"It already fucking hurts," Draco ground out into the pillow.

"Just relax… it gets better, I promise," he whispered, and Draco exhaled and forced himself to relax. If Potter can do this then so could he, for fuck's sake.

Slowly he felt himself relaxing.

"Now try to gently push me out," Potter whispered, and Draco did, and it helped, somehow, when Potter pressed in deeper, deeper, until Draco was completely full.

Potter waited, held still, while Draco took a few calming breaths and willed himself to relax, breath by breath. The knees wedged between Draco's thighs were vibrating with the effort of containment, and Draco knew exactly what that felt like. He knew exactly how hard it was be on the other end, to hold still and wait.

But this….

This was so… _terrifying._

Potter was clearly braver than Draco gave him credit for. If Draco had ever doubted Potter's comparable bravery, he no longer did. How Potter could ever had trusted him… entrusted him… with this…

And then the stillness burned too much and Draco began to press back against the body behind him, and _thank gods_ Potter understood him, because he started moving, finally.

It still burned, as Potter experimented with the angle, speed, and depth, but Draco tried instead to focus on the burning in his chest at the recognition of what, exactly, Potter had entrusted him with since they started really having sex… and what it meant that Draco was trusting him, now.

Because he _did_ trust Potter.

Intrinsically.

The same way that he trusted Snape, he realized.

Which was probably an insane comparison (or a surprisingly apt one), but there were too many emotions whirring around in his head and the constriction in his chest was threatening to rise into his throat if he thought too much about how good it was starting to feel.

Because it was good.

And it was getting better.

With each stroke Potter was getting closer to hitting that place, and then he brushed over it, and Draco jerked in surprised pleasure, followed by the sinking realization that, yes, this was exactly what he'd been missing, what he'd been _wanting_, and yes, it was really, _really_ good.

Which shouldn't have been a sinking feeling, really, except that it left him no doubt, whatsoever, that he was undeniably bent, and versatile at that.

But the flicker of disappointment (or was is simply resignation, with maybe a little bitter relief, too?) was quickly swallowed up by the intensely freeing recognition that dear_gods_ this was _good_. Potter was pounding into him more powerfully now, punctuating the pleasant burn with rough bursts of electrical ecstasy that shot up his spine and back down, directly to his cock. No wonder Potter liked it so much.

He arched his back and got up onto his knees, the pillow beneath him abandoned in favour of rocking back against the slick hot body behind him, moving with the rhythm, chewing his lip to stifle the urge to beg for_ more please_ and _harder_ and _oh gods Harry right there fuck me right there yes, yes, yes don't stop!_

"Not… going to…" Potter ground out, and Draco realized he'd probably been speaking aloud, which really ought to have been a more alarming realization than it was. At the moment, though, he just wanted it to keep going because he was about _thisclose_ to coming without anyone even looking at his cock. And then, as though he was reading his mind, Potter reached down to grasp Draco's dripping, straining erection and began pumping it in time with his thrusts, and Draco alternately groaned and whimpered under the attention. Thrust after thrust built the orgasm inside him until he was teetering and finally, finally, in an explosion of white light behind his eyelids, his climax tore through him and he came in thick ropes onto the bed beneath him.

He was only distantly aware of Potter's final, too-good-and-almost-painful thrusts before he felt him still behind him and a rush of something hot filling him, and he collapsed, bringing Potter with him, into a sweaty heap on the bed.

"Wow," he said somehow, face buried in the pillow.

Potter chuckled against his back, rolling off of him, and casting a cleaning charm. "Yeah," he answered.

They lay there for a while in silence, Draco fighting with sleep. "Didn't you say you had to go?" he asked, hoping Potter would change his mind.

"Oh, yeah, I do," he murmured and began to sit up.

"Dumbledore?" Draco asked before he could stop himself, his eyes drawn inexorably to the neatly looping writing on the now opened parchment lying on the floor beside the bed.

"Yeah..." Potter answered dismissively, then his eyes narrowed and he snatched up that parchment. "Why?" he asked suspiciously.

"Because," Draco shrugged. Why does everything have to be suspicious?

"Because why?" Potter asked, the suspicious tone sounded almost accusatory. "You're planning it again, right? You said you were going to do it, and now you're back in here planning it again."

Draco sighed. "We can't do this. It's…. it's better if you just don't know, ok?"

"No. Tell me. Who is it?"

"I can't."

"Is it someone in the castle?" Potter demanded, and Draco must have still been dazed by the earth-shattering orgasm, because he saw something in Potter's eyes and understood he'd given it away without knowing. "It is!" Potter accused.

"No, of course not," Draco lied, and hoped he sounded convincing.

"Don't lie to me" Potter growled, rising menacingly in front of him, green eyes glinting with fury.

"Look, just… forget it."

"No. You're planning something, and it's someone here, and I can't let you do it, Draco. Not tonight."

"Why not tonight?" Draco asked. Who said anything about tonight?

"Because," Potter shot back evasively, and now it was Draco's turn to narrow his eyes.

"Why not tonight?"

Potter opened his mouth as though to say something, but then they heard the door crashing open and the sound of clinking bottles and Draco clapped his hand over Potter's mouth, knocking them both over onto the bed and earning himself a jab in the ribs. He yelped.

"Who's there?" slurred the intruder, and immediately Draco recognized the voice. He removed his hand from Potter's mouth to watch him mouth 'Trelawney.' He nodded, and then as they both threw on their clothes he reached for his robes and pulled out the darkness powder. Potter frowned at him a moment, then seemed to recognize it and nodded approvingly. He motioned for Draco to follow, and together they snuck along the corridor to the door.

They could hear clinking, and another timid "who's there," and then Draco nodded to Potter and dropped the powder, and there was no light, not a single beam of light. All Draco could understand was the sound of scuffling, and a shrieked, "I never!" and "get your hands off me" and then a slammed door.

Silence.

"Potter?" he whispered as the powder dissipated.

Silence.

Then, from outside the Room, "Are you alright Professor?"

Draco rolled his eyes as he listened to Potter helping the old lady up, pretending to care, asking her what happened as though he had not himself been the one who knocked her over. _Unbelievable, the bollocks on that boy_, he thought. He listened to them trotting down the hall, their voiced muffled, and then grabbed one of Trelawney's disgusting sherry bottles and took a good long drink_. Fuck._ Only now did he recognize how sore he really was. His legs, the insides of his thighs, his arse, even his lower back. How Potter had been managing Draco had no idea. No wonder he always fell right asleep. Well… that and the whole trusting Gryffindor thing.

Draco padded back to the bed and climbed back up gingerly.

He lay down, thoughts of Potter swirling in his head, battling with the less pleasant worries about his plans for tomorrow. Dumbledore. How the hell was he going to kill Dumbledore? Even with the old man's consent, it would be bloody difficult. He'd have to really, really want to do it. And he did. Or anyway, he really, really didn't want Snape to have to do it.

He must have fallen asleep or something, because the next thing Draco felt was a light vibration in the pocket of his robes. He fumbled inside of it until he found the offending object: a galleon. _The_ galleon. He closed his eyes and tapped into his connection to Rosmerta, imagines his mind travelling through walls anf across the grounds and into Hogsmeade and there she was, standing in front him, and he watched over her shoulder as Dumbledore reached out an arm and a hand materialized to grab onto it. He spun and disapparated, and the invisible boy went with him.

Potter and Dumbledore were gone.

_They'll be back soon_, Rosmerta's voice whispered to him.

Soon.

But right now they were gone.

Draco closed the connection and lay back in the bed, staring at the ceiling, possibilities pounding in his head.

And then, as if on impulse, he leapt out of bed and climbed up to the Owlery.

* * *

An hour later Draco decided that moving the raid to one day earlier, on impulse, without telling Snape, just because Dumbledore was out and would be less likely to notice them slipping in so that they could lay a trap… was a phenomenally stupid idea. Worse than idea, really, because he hadn't just thought about it, he'd done it. And now he was standing in front of the cabinet waiting for them to come through, waiting… and shivering with fear and anticipation. He folded his arms around himself and when that didn't work, he reached across and clasped one of his elbows, and squeezed, hard. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine Snape yanking him away, fixing everything. Was it too late to go and wake him? To tell him what he'd done?

No… he couldn't do that. This might be the only way that Draco could get Dumbledore alone. The only way he could spare Snape was to do it now, without him knowing.

He stared with grim determination when Bella stepped out of the cabinet and gave him a simpering sneer, her hair as wild as ever. He glanced behind her to see who else was coming, fear and dread pounding in his chest.

The rumbling panic in the pit of his stomach seemed to reach a crescendo when he heard the gravelly tenor of the Werewolf. _No! _He glanced at Bella, her eyes wild, he hair red mouth twisted in a smile, and something cold and hard as lead sank in his gut. Without Snape, there was no way… no way… how could he possibly manage them. Desperately, he watched them climbing from the cabinet. Greyback, Dolohov, Yaxley, the Carrows.

_Fuck_.

Greyback growled as Amycus Carrow shoved past, wands waved, and Draco waved them silently on.

"If you meet anyone, keep them busy. Whatever you do, keep them away from the astronomy tower," he said simply, and they nodded. Greyback leered. Draco felt sick.

The next several minutes all happened very, very quickly. Flashes of light burst through the door to the Room almost the moment he cracked it open. Somehow he got everyone out using the darkness powder, but as soon as they reached the entrance halls to secure the doors, there were curses firing right and left. Draco dodged and ducked, nearly tripping over something large (_oh gods, a body…?_) before he finally escaped the fray long enough to throw up three Mark Barriers in rapid succession on the stairs, hoping that in combination they would hold, before rushing up to the astronomy tower.

The rush of ice-cold air shocked his senses and he stood numbly in the darkness, staring at the night sky. He gazed over the grounds, looking down over the lake, where the twinkling stars and the hollow moon were quivering on the unstill surface of the dark water.

He took a deep breath, and touched his wand to his forearm before casting it up into the sky. A bright green light burst from his wand and suddenly the entire castle was bathed in the sickly green glow, wavering as the massive snake writhed as it emerged, thick and menacing, from the cruel skull.

The moon light warped. The grounds looked diseased, the castle distorted. All the beauty ruined. Draco turned away abruptly and went to wait in the stairwell, away from the gruesome green glow.

Suddenly, footsteps. Wisps of fabric. Whispers. The old man's voice, it's low register carrying under the whistling of the night wind.

Draco leapt up and ran out onto the tower platform. "_Expelliarmus!_" he cried without even thinking, and to his shock, it worked. The white wand floated up into the air and dropped off the side of the astronomy tower and Draco stared dumbly at Dumbledore. He didn't look well. He was leaning against the wall, pale, and old. _No wonder he wants to go_, Draco thought. _Just look at him._

"Ah good evening, Draco," Dumbledore said in his usually polite, vaguely dismissive tone.

"Who else is here?" Draco hissed, and stepped forward.

"No one," the old man answered.

"I heard you talking to someone, who's here?" Draco snapped, looking around, but there was no sign of Potter, or anyone else. Maybe Potter hadn't come back. Maybe Dumbledore had sent him down to the fight. A horrible clenching dread overtook Draco at the thought that Potter was down there, with the Carrows, and Bella, and… Greyback. _Fuck_. He just needed to get this over with and kill the old man and get out of here before anyone gets hurt.

Dumbledore was chatting him up, stalling for time. Draco shivered in the cold air, and shuffled on his feet, sliding just a step to the side. And then he felt it: the pause in the air. Something was blocking the wind, solid against the wall. A dark presence in the darkness. He shifted closed, and then he knew.

Invisible, but unmistakable: Potter was there.


	51. Into the Woods

Responses to all your reviews from the last three chapters are at the bottom :)

Wow I can't believe it's finally finished! Sorry that the last ten chapters were so slow in coming, I really got swamped with school. I've also been working on editing the earlier chapters, which I'm going to keep doing as I plan for the sequel (!). Meanwhile, enjoy the last instalment. I expect to be working on editing and then upload a sneak peak of the sequel soon.

**Warning:** this final chapter will include (canon) character death and a little violence.

_[As previously, __**bold**__ lines are taken or paraphrased from the text by JKR and are not mine.]_

**Chapter 51: Into the Woods**

Severus ran, robes billowing behind him. He probably shouldn't have hexed Filius, but at least it would keep the Granger girl out of the way. Students had no business in the middle of a fight with Death Eaters. Honestly, what were they thinking?

He reached the top of the dungeon stairs and stared, aghast, at the entrance hall. Curses were flying left and right, aurors in red, Death Eaters in black, and… _oh dear gods_… Potter's posse, astoundingly overconfident as ever a Gryffindor was, were right there in doing battle beside them.

But where was Potter? And where was Draco?

"Snape, Malfoy's in the tower!" came a growl from Yaxley a few feet away. Severus counted: six, as far he could see. Something exploded near his head, and his gaze wandered just long enough to see someone lying on the floor at the foot of the stairs.

Right. Time to end this.

"Go up," he ordered, his low voice echoing through the hall, and immediately the Death Eaters began retreating up the stairs. Several aurors gave chase but something stopped them from advancing further. Someone muttered, 'barrier' and Severus had a momentary swell of pride as he wondered if Draco had thrown up that barrier, and gotten it to hold. In Hogwarts, no less.

Severus was about to run to the stairs… and then he saw a flash of sandy-brown hair in the corner of his eye, and he slid around the edge of the wall and grabbed Lupin by the scruff of his neck and pulled him into an abandoned classroom off of the main hallway.

"What are you doing?" Remus roared and struggled where Severus had pinned him against the wall, eyes flashing, trying to get back to the others.

"Lupin…. Lupin… Remus, listen!" Severus finally tried, and the taut body went slack in his arms, but he was still panting.

"What?"

Shit. "Lupin, however unpleasant he outcome of this evening might be…" but he couldn't really say what he wanted to say, could he? No… but maybe, "do you trust me?" he suddenly demanded.

Lupin blinked at him. "Yes," he answered without hesitation. Which made Severus hesitate, for just a second, before he nodded curtly.

Then he kissed him. A fast, but desperate kiss, that said 'I'm sorry' and also, 'goodbye.' Too soon, he wrenched himself away and ran out of the room and up the stairs without looking back.

How long had he been up there? Where were Potter and Albus? Why had they come tonight? Why?

He felt his arm tingle as he passed through the barrier and understood suddenly what Draco had done (and he was sure it was Draco – the feel of his particular magic was unmistakeable).

When he reached the top of the astronomy tower and saw them standing there, surrounding the boy, egging him on… and Albus (gods he could barely even bring himself to look at the old man)… his suspicions were confirmed, and he didn't have time to worry about why Draco, who had spent a year systematically undermining the goal of this entire endeavour, was now standing here ready to perform it. And of course, failing to do so. Because Draco didn't have the hatred in him to do it.

Not that he didn't have enough very good reasons to have build up the kind of hatred you needed to cast the _avada_. The boy grew up with parents who used and manipulated him, and for whom he was never good enough. He's been subjected to more unforgivable than most adult wizards fighting in a war, and mostly from his own side. And when Severus failed to stop him, failed to protect him… he goes and produces a _patronus_ from a memory of him. And after years of living in the shadow of Saint Bloody Potter, he manages to fall for the lunatic and then somehow, after nearly being killed twice, still forgives the bastard and falls into his arms…

No… Draco didn't have it in him… because the space that ought to have been filled up with hatred and anger was instead filled with trust… and with something Severus himself had in very, very short supply: forgiveness.

**"Severus, please…"**

Albus' strangled voice yanked him from his thoughts and he looked up with all the searing anger that roiled inside of him and the absolute, utter, unspeakable unfairness of what was being required of him. How utterly unfair, how inhuman, it was to ask him to kill the man who was like a father to him, the only lord and father he had sought out, to whom he had willingly chosen to bind himself, all those years ago, in loyalty and service… until death.

He looked up, suppressed every ounce of love and respect and admiration he felt for the man in front of him, and instead allowed the bitterness, the anger, the pain to well inside him, and then spat out the words, and watched as everything he felt condensed into a single beam of hateful green light.

* * *

Potter… Potter was here.

**"Let us help you," **the old man was saying.

**"You can't help me,"** Draco answered. "Why are you even bothering to argue about it, you know just as well as I do that-"

**"Mr. Malfoy,"** Dumbledore cut him off, **"you do not need to do this." **The stern blue eyes communicated clearly Dumbledore's wishes: Snape has to do it. And apparently, Potter isn't meant to know why.

Draco felt his blood run cold at how very calculating this cheery old man in the half-moon spectacles really must be.

And already he felt himself wavering. Bad enough that Potter was here, but if Dumbledore was going to hide the real reason for this whole farce, could Draco still go through with it? It was one thing to take the risk that Potter might never forgive him, but another thing entirely to ensure it beyond a shadow of a doubt by killing his mentor in front of him.

For a moment, he simply stood there, resolve weakening against the blue eyes of his headmaster and the oppressive silence of the invisible boy beside him… _he owed it to Snape to see this through, though, didn't he? _He asked himself desperately, but already his wand was lowering.

And then a clatter of footsteps came echoing up the stairs from below.

**"Go on Malfoy, do it!"** he heard one of the Carrows taunt. _Shit. How did this happen?_ Dumbledore had stalled him, and now the others were here. He had to do it, though. Hesitating was one thing but balking was unacceptable.

Greyback wrestled his way forward and Draco could smell the stench of blood on him already, and he felt his stomach turn at the thought.

**"No, he wants the boy to do it," **hissed someone behind him.

And then footsteps echoing up the stairwell, and… shit. Snape. Snape was here. He'd been too slow. He'd hesitated too long, and now Snape would have to do what he was too weak, too cowardly to do.

The dark pools of disappointment never met his eyes, though. Instead Snape gazed disdainfully at the assembled crowd, and then turned to Dumbledore.

**"Severus, please…" **the old man said, and Draco almost forgot what he knew… because really, that please sounded more plaintive that he wanted to admit. How close to death had Dumbledore believed himself to be? And did really mean for this to happen?

He looked at Snape faced, face and composed as ever, but saw deep inside of the dark eyes, a blazing fury, a fierceness, the he had seen before, when Snape was called upon to do something abhorrent. And Draco recognized it for what it was, this time: a battle of wills playing itself out behind the stoic mask, and the near-violent repression of the impulse to resist.

The beam of green light that shot across Draco's line of sight was oddly anticlimactic, actually. In utter silence, the old man's body fell from the tower.

And all Draco could think, all he could say, was 'sorry.'

Sorry to Snape, for lying to him, for failing him. And sorry to Potter… to _Harry_… who stood frozen in against the wall still.

"I'm sorry… Harry I'm so sorry… please believe me…" he whispered desperately over the cheers of the Death Eaters behind him.

And then a strong hand grabbed him by the elbow, and he felt himself pulled away, down the stairs, and he turned to follow.

Draco ran blindly, pulled by Snape's iron grip on his arm. It should hurt, but he couldn't feel anything. He stepped over that body again…_oh gods…_ but he didn't have time to look back. Ahead of him, already though the front doors, Greyback howled and Bella carried on a maniacal sing-song chant about Potty and the Dark Lord.

Panic surged in waves as he stumbled to keep up on the down hill slope toward Hagrid's hovel. Someone lit it aflame. Behind him, Draco heard someone call his name, and he turned. _Harry!_ He wanted to call out. Wanted to run back. Everything had gone wrong. This wasn't the plan. But Snape turned him around with a violent jerk of his arm and growled, "think of your mother," and Draco nodded, swallowing hard. And when Snape released his arm, he ran into the woods after the others. He would get her out, and then they could leave. But if he deserted her now, there would be no chance for her.

* * *

Severus watched Draco running away, and then turned on Potter. They sparred like children until Potter dared use that curse on him again.

**"You dare use my own spells against me?" **Severus roared, and Potter stared at him, incredulous.

**"How could you?"** Potter asked, and there were tears in his eyes. Severus sneered.

"You mean, how could Draco?" he spat back, and Potter dropped his eyes, his face blushing in the orange glow of the flames from Hagrid's cottage. In the distance, he could see the lights of the castle, where Lupin was tending to the injured. His chest clenched and he closed his eyes for a moment. "Forget him," Severus said quietly, unsure whether he was talking to Potter or to himself.

"I… I love him…" Potter whispered miserably.

Severus cast the boy one last look, and then turned and stalked away. Potter didn't try to stop him.

* * *

When they reached the clearing, Snape was still lagging behind. As soon as he stepped into the clearing, Snape caught his eye and he nodded curtly, and Draco accepted this to mean that Harry was still ok. _Good._

Snape started issuing orders and the others began to disapparate. Draco waited until they were all gone to turn to Snape.

"Is he –"

"Forget about him, Draco. You can't help him. He can't help you. It's over."

"I'm going back to him. I'm going to get mother and I'm going back."

"You're Marked, Draco. You can never go back."

"But…"

"But what? What, Draco? What can you possibly think will happen? You think you can go back now, after what you've done? No. Dumbledore is dead, and with him, any chance of salvation." Snape answered. "Your only hope is to return to the Dark Lord and hope he's sufficiently pleased with the outcome not to kill you for your own failure. You chose to invite six witnesses to your folly, and they will be quick to convey your faltering. They are probably already doing so as we speak."

Draco swallowed, and felt the blood rushing from his face. His feet felt like lead.

As if he could read his mind, Snape shook his head, "he'll punish her if you don't return, you know this. You've always known this. The only way out is through."

"I didn't say I wanted out…" Draco protested, but Snape just looked at him, his face unreadable.

Then he asked, "If you could, would you leave the Dark Lord's service, and stay with Potter?"

Draco stared up into the dark eyes and swallowed. It was a test, right? I must be a test. Because Snape was loyal, no matter what his ties to Dumbledore might have been. He'd killed the greatest Wizard of the century. His own father figure. And all at the Dark Lord's bidding.

Except that it hadn't been the Dark Lord's bidding, had it? It had been an oath sworn to his mother… and Dumbledore had known. And everything he had learned about the man this year… everything he had seen… wasn't it possible…?

Draco hesitated only a second longer, and then swallowed the stale fear that welled inside of him and nodded his head, "yes." And then, because he felt he owed him some sort of explanation, he whispered, "I think I might… love… him…" so quietly he could barely hear it himself.

A shadow of something like pain crossed Snape's face in that moment, and he closed his eyes and sighed.

When he opened his eyes again, he looked tires, and suddenly much, much older. Draco forgot, for a moment, to be angry or afraid, because he recognized in Snape's face something of the cost to him of what he had just done. Snape had just killed a man he loved and admired. _How is he even standing right now? _

"We have very little time," Snape said quietly, just urgently. Then he began casting around in Draco's mind, sifting through the memories of Potter, and pulling all but the fighting, and depositing the silvery strands into a vial which he tucked into his robes. Then he asked, "Where is the ring?"

Draco held out his hand to show him. Snape nodded, and then grasped him by the arm and disapparated them.

Draco blinked when he recognized that they were not in the cold, dark house were the Dark Lord was waiting for them.

No, they were standing in front of Malfoy Manor.

"You need to re-key the wards," Snape told him, and before Draco could protest that he had no idea how to do that, Snape was taking down the old wards around the front door, though he left the outer wards intact.

Together Draco and Snape redrew the thing blue and red lines that crisscrossed the doors, and keyed them to him using his title, Lord Malfoy.

It took them no more than five minutes, but already Snape was growing anxious, which Draco could tell by the ever-so-slightly stiff wrist movements.

"We must go," he said finally, and Draco nodded. He had absolutely no idea why, in gods' names they were doing this, but he with Snape acting the way he was, he decided it was best not to ask any questions.

Too soon, he felt the clutching, crushing grip of apparition again, and found himself in the familiar cold, dark house – but immediately Draco could tell that news of the attack on Hogwarts had spread. The crowd of revellers spilled out into the hallway, and as they moved through the press he heard cheering and laughter, and smelled firewhiskey on the breaths of the men they passed.

In the middle of the large hall, various slaves had been brought out to provide entertainment, and their muffled screams as they were whipped, or raped, mingled with the excited buzz of laughter and chatter in the room.

The Dark Lord sat in his customary seat, but he was sitting upright, and talking animatedly with Bella, who hovered at his knee.

"Severus, my most loyal servant," the Dark Lord smiled as he saw them approaching. Snape nodded curtly and then dropped to his knees, and the Dark Lord permitted him to kiss his hand. Draco dropped to his knees beside Snape and waited to be acknowledged.

Suddenly the room began to buzz and hum… and then slowly grew quiet. There was a nearly electrical ringing of anticipation in the air. The Dark Lord raised a hand and everyone seemed to understand, because in a few moments the slaves were sitting at the feet of various Death Eaters and all of the assembled crowd, masked and unmasked, and formed a circle around them and was watching expectantly.

"You have done well, Severus," the cold voice was saying, "but your apprentice has not fulfilled his potential. Very disappointing." The room hissed.

And then the cold red eyes turned toward him and Draco willed himself not to shrink away from their freezing depths.

"You have failed me, just as your father has."

"My Lord-"

"QUIET!" The Dark Lord called, and then Draco felt a slicing, searing pain in this throat and reached up to grasp at it, choking and spitting the blood that was filling his mouth. A cold laughter rang in his ears, and then the pain went away. Draco wiped his mouth with his sleeve and tried to suppress the nausea in his gut at the taste of his own blood.

"However," the Dark Lord continued, "tonight is a night to celebrate, and I'm inclined to be lenient. Perhaps I will not kill you. You might prove to serve… other needs…" he said, and Draco willed his eyes not to stray to the whimpering captives behind him, as the room echoed with lascivious laughter.

"Yes, my Lord," Draco answered, head still bowed, unable to look up into the cruel red eyes. How could he ever have wanted their praise?

Suddenly Draco felt himself stripped bare and bound with thick ropes around his ankles, his wrists tied behind his back. He felt a sharp, booted foot kick him hard in the chest and he toppled over onto his side, unable to catch himself for the restraints on his arms and legs.

Draco peered up at Snape, hoping he was hiding the horror at the thought of what was to be done to him. But there was no pity, no compassion, in his eyes. Of course not, how could he have thought otherwise? Snape was a loyal Death Eater. Of course he was. He was loyal to the Dark Lord, he killed Dumbledore, and now that Draco had been foolish enough to admit that he was no longer loyal, Snape would let them do whatever they wanted to him. Would probably participate, too.

He felt like he would be sick.

How could he have been so blind? How could he have seen that as anything other than a test?

"But first things first. Severus," the Dark Lord cooed. "What would _you_ like as a reward for _your_ services?"

The room seemed to hold its breath.

"The boy," he said, disdain dripping in his voice.

A cruel chuckle rose from the Dark Lord and echoed around the circle.

"How fitting," the cold, high voice remarked. "Well then, take your prize, my loyal servant. You have earned it."

Draco felt a cold panic spreading through him as he felt something tightening around his neck and realized that Snape was holding a leather leash. He gulped, and felt the collar constricting his throat painfully. The leash pulled tighter and he was lifted to his feet, the ropes transfigured to shackles to enable him to walk, and he followed Snape, who was leading them to the doors.

"Oh and Severus?" the cold high voice called. Snape turned around, yanking the leash, and Draco stopped, too. "Bring him to the banquet. I'm sure our guests will find it… educational…"

Snape nodded curtly, then turned to leave. Head bowed, Draco followed him out of the room. Behind him he heard the Dark Lord calling, "And now, let us celebrate this great victory! This is the dawning of a new era!"

Cheers echoed through the hall and out into the darkness of the night.

**_-fin-_**

* * *

Ok, that's a fairly bleak ending, but fear not! The sequel is coming! And yes, there _will_ be a happy ending. But this is HBP, so it has to end with desolation and doubt.

* * *

**Responses to your reviews from Chapters 49-51:**

_retrocirce:_ muahhaha. and this end isn't much better, is it?

_7yearsoflove:_ I'm so glad you like the relationship between SS and DM, it's been really fun to write and I totally wasn't expecting to spend as much time on it.

_Pepper Dine_: thank you!

_Killer Rabbit:_ Thank you for being such a loyal reader and leaving me such deliciously long reviews, I really appreciate it and I read every word. And yes, I find it hard to see this Draco bottoming regularly with Potter, but it was important to the egalitarian nature of their relationship, and it was important for Draco's emotional state at that moment. Poor boy.

_The Dabbler_: He is rather frustrating, isn't he? It's like watching a trainwreck in slow motion. Thanks for being a loyal reader and for all your reviews.

_septemberbeauty13: _Thank you for being such a loyal reader and thank you for your support throughout. I hope it's been a good read.

_yellowbird64:_ why thank you, I quite agree, they (SS and DM) deserve a lot more attention, as does their complicated relationship.

_harborseal54_: Thank you for your notes and advice, I plan to go back over the whole story and touch it up in the next few weeks. Who knows, maybe I'll fix the invisibility cloak scene, if I can manage it.

_The Dabbler_: Indeed, poor Severus Snape. He's had a rough year, too.

_A. Sade_: Thank you! That is truly high praise! I'm so glad to know that this story can appeal to people who are not reading it specifically for the pairing :)

_Chi Chi Botakuru_: Thank you, I'm so glad you like it.

_Kristen 36_: thank you! glad you like it!

_spicypepperoni357_: Thank you! I, too, prefer a more realistic pairing where both boys are still coming to terms with the attraction. Otherwise, where is the internal conflict?

_____lostinthefog_: So glad you like the UST. I wrote it mostly because that's what I love to read.

_aweebuoy_: Thank you!

_blackcurrent_: :) Thank you, and thank you for all your support through this long project.


	52. Out of the Woods: A Teaser

Out of the Woods

_Prologue: A Teaser_

Stumbling and staggering, Draco struggled to keep pace with Snape's long strides, all while trying, and failing, to keep his bearings in the maze of cobble-stone corridors, sconce-lit hallways, and dark, dungeon-cell doors with barred window. He lost track of the turns and stairwells, tripping and choking as the collar around his neck yanked him ever further into the depths of this dark old house. The noise of the jubilation long-since drowned by the echoing footsteps of Snape's cold, hard boots on the stone floors, so that now, standing in front of iron-bolted door high in what must be a turret, surely, the number of steps they'd climbed – all he could hear was the blood rushing in ears and a faint, rasping breath from the tall man looming beside him, hand held out in front, key poised before the lock, pausing… hesitating… and then, with a rusty clink, the great iron bolt unlocked, and the door creaked open, and Draco allowed himself to be tugged by the neck toward his doom.

_To be continued…_

AN: That's right kids, I'm back. With all sorts of fun planned for Draco's side of Deathly Hallows. Part Two, which we're calling Out of the Woods, will be posting soon.

Scene requests (that is, scenes or sections from the book that you'd especially like to see reinterpreted) are welcome, as always.

I'll edit this post to add a link to the new story once it starts going up, but you can obviously also find it on my profile page. Love and happy new year to your all!

*EDIT*

OOTW is up and running. Expect a new chapter weekly.


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